Used
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: House must endure an unimaginable ordeal...will his friends be able to deal with it? Will he be able to recover? A story of trauma and healing.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Used

Title: Used  
Rating: R  
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship, House/Cuddy friendship, and others...as for actual pairings, not quite sure how/if those will emerge yet :)  
Warnings: implied non-con, violence and non-con of a flashback/memory sort, mild language, general angst and trauma and darkness  
Summary: House endures the unimaginable...will his friends be able to deal with it? Will he be able to deal with it? A story about damaged human beings, and ultimately recovery and healing

Losing a patient was never easy.

There were dozens of agonizing moments involved in the whole terrible process – that sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach when he realized that despite all his efforts, the disease ravaging his patient's body had already won; the self-conscious guilt that came with informing the patient and their family that there was nothing more he could do to save their life; and in the end, the bitter anguish of loss that came with the death of someone he had usually treated for long enough to allow his emotions to become dangerously invested.

But the worst part, Wilson decided as he wearily drew the pen across the stark white form on his desk – was the paperwork.

Paperwork that reduced a tragic but meaningful life to carefully chosen words designed to protect the hospital from any liability for its loss. Wilson sometimes wondered if he was the only one who realized that, beneath the technical medical and legal terms he used to write his report, was a _person_.

In this case, Meaghan Reynolds.

The report didn't say it – of course not, it wasn't "medically relevant" – but Meaghan liked chocolate pound cakes from the local grocery store, and loved to listen to corny old country music on the radio, and preferred the company of a good story to entertaining television shows.

Meaghan Reynolds was four years old when she died.

And the useless report Wilson was writing up would do nothing to ensure that the person she was would be remembered.

Maybe it was the dark swirling circle of his thoughts that made him more irritable than usual when he heard the unexpected but intimately familiar voice in the darkened doorway to his office – or maybe it was just the fact that he had thought he was alone in the building, and House's flat, matter-of-fact voice had startled him.

"I need a ride."

"Geez, House, do you have to scare me like that? Normal people…_say_ something when they walk into a room."

Wilson jumped, dropping the pen to his desk with a clatter as he cast an irritated glance in his friend's direction. Frowning in confusion, he glanced at the small clock, ticking away the seconds on his desk. House had left the building nearly an hour ago, heading for his motorcycle to make his own way home.

"I did," House reminded him. "I said I need a ride."

"What happened to your bike?" Wilson asked with a weary sigh. "I thought you went home already."

"It's gone. I need a ride," House repeated the words a second time, and Wilson's frown deepened at the oddly flat sound of his friend's voice.

He raised his eyes to scan House's face, relieved to see that the older doctor's face was set in his usual barely there sardonic grin, but troubled to find that for once, the expression did not seem to go any farther than his lips. House's eyes were blank and a little two wide.

Something was wrong, though Wilson could not quite put his finger on what.

Still, his usual habit of dealing with House did not shift as he snarked back at him, "Do I look like one of your hookers? And I've still got a bit of work to do, here. You might wanna catch the bus, if you don't wanna wait."

House was silent for a moment, and Wilson looked up at him again, his head tilting slightly as House limped, slower than usual, into the faint glow from his desk lamp, and he got his first good look at his friend.

"No, you don't look like a hooker," House conceded. "Though come to think of it, my personal favorite could be your sister, there's such a strong resemblance. Wonder what that says about me?" He paused just a moment before adding in a strangely quiet voice, "And I'll wait. Take your time. I might just…take a nap."

The weak, ill-timed barb was wasted on Wilson, whose eyes slowly widened as he rose to his feet, looking House slowly up and down. His jacket was torn in the front, and all his clothes appeared rumpled and tattered as he limped slowly toward the sofa with the help of his cane, on legs that seemed unsteadier than usual. His hand on the top of the cane trembled visibly, and with each step, he winced with pain.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Wilson demanded, a note of concern creeping into his voice as he started to come around the side of his desk. "Did you get in an accident and wreck your bike? Are you all right?"

House waved a hand at him in annoyance, edging painfully toward the sofa across from Wilson's desk. "I'm fine," he replied, though Wilson still heard that strange flatness in his voice. "Bike got stolen, that's all. Keep your distance, Florence Nightengale. I just might bite."

"That's _all_?" Wilson echoed in disbelief. "That bike cost you 5,000! _My_ 5,000! And all you've got to say is 'that's all'?" He followed House around the desk, despite the other doctor's gruff warnings, and reached out a hand to steady him as he began to sit slowly, painfully down on the sofa. "Were you there when they took it? Did the thief hurt you? Have you called the police?"

House jerked away from Wilson's helpful hand, and Wilson drew back, startled by the sudden, unexpected movement that seemed more like a flinch than a gesture of annoyance, despite House's agitated response and irritated roll of his eyes.

"I said I'm fine, didn't I? Just give me some space, Wilson, will you? And no, I haven't called the police. Why bother? They won't find it, anyway. By now it's probably already painted a different color and missing its VIN number. What's the point?"

Wilson shook his head slightly, his mouth open in an incredulous question, unsure what to say to that. That bike was one of House's most prized possessions, and the idea that he was not doing everything in his power to get it back was unthinkable. He hesitated a moment, considering, before continuing in a firm, insistent tone of voice almost always reserved for House's most unreasonable moments.

"Well, we're at least going to get _you_ checked out, House. You're hurt, and we've gotta be sure you're all right…"

"I'm all right, okay?" House insisted, though his wince as he slowly, awkwardly settled himself on the couch belied his words. "I fell when they pulled the bike away from me, that's all. I'm not hurt, so back off." He lowered his head, his words a barely distinguishable mumble as he added, "Freakin' mother hen."

"So you _were_ there when they took it," Wilson concluded, pointing his finger at his friend in a gesture that would have been almost victorious, if not for the worry that now showed in his warm, dark eyes. "House, you need to at least go down to Emergency and let them check you out…"

"_No_."

The tone of House's voice left no room for argument, but Wilson could not help but notice the slight tremor in it, uncharacteristic of his bold, self-possessed friend. The incident must have shaken him more than he was willing to let on, he decided. A moment later, he made a second decision.

"Fine. Then _I'll_ check you over when I finish here, okay? Give me five minutes, and I'll be ready to go."

"Going. Yes. Sounds good," House mumbled, his eyes closed, his head resting against the back of the sofa. He frowned then, Wilson's first words finally registering with him. "Except for that first part. I _am_ a doctor. I don't _need_ a doctor. Especially an over-sensitive, neurotic mess of a Jewish mother like you."

Wilson relaxed slightly, convinced that despite House's acerbic protests, he would be able to assure himself of his friend's well-being at some point before dropping him off at his apartment. Judging by the weary posture of the older doctor on the sofa, the sheer exhaustion evident in his trembling limbs, Wilson was fairly certain that House would not put up much more than a verbal resistance to his efforts.

Still, more than a little anxious, he rushed through the last of his work, setting aside the report on Meaghan Reynolds to be completed the next day, and contenting himself with simply putting his desk in order in preparation to leave. He hated to admit it, when his friend was likely right that nothing was really wrong with him, but his concern for House trumped his responsibility to his job at the moment.

With a heavy sigh, he rose from his chair, putting a few files into his briefcase and zipping it closed as he moved around the desk and toward the sofa. He frowned when he noticed that House was not sleeping, as he had expected, but just staring blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes dark and troubled…almost…_haunted_.

Well…more haunted than usual, anyway.

"Hey," Wilson spoke in a voice that was unusually soft. "You okay?" As he spoke, he reached out a hand toward House's shoulder to gain his attention.

House's reaction alarmed the younger doctor, as he jerked his arm away from Wilson with a sharp intake of breath, nearly falling over sideways on the sofa in his attempt to evade the simple touch of the other man's hand. Wilson immediately backed off, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Damn it, Wilson!" House hissed as he pulled himself back upright on shaking arms.

"Hey, easy, buddy." He tried to lighten the mood with a laugh that came out more nervous than amused. "Easy, just…trying to wake you up." He cringed inwardly as soon as the words were out of his mouth, aware that what might have been a convincing excuse to anyone not House would be easily discounted by the astute, observant medical genius that was his best friend.

"I was already awake," House snapped, leaning forward on the sofa with a visible effort, though not acknowledging Wilson's slip. The younger doctor was not sure whether that was a cause for relief, or concern. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," Wilson confirmed, reaching out a tentative hand toward his friend's arm, though not quite closing the distance between them. "You gonna knock my head off with your cane if I try to help you stand up?"

House gave him a sneer of mock amusement, even as he reached out his own hand to accept Wilson's offer of help, rolling his eyes in frustration at his own need. As he put a cautious hand around his friend's back, under his arms, and helped him to stand, Wilson wondered again, uneasily, whether it was mere exhaustion, or some as yet unknown injury, that was making House so visibly weak and shaky.

A moment later, he got his alarming, horrifying answer.

"Okay…here's your cane," he murmured as he placed the support in his friend's hand, glancing behind him as he helped him steady himself. "Do you need any help getting to the…?"

His voice trailed off into stunned silence, just as House interrupted him irritably. "Please, Wilson. I already told you, I'm. Fine. All I need from you right now is a ride home. I don't need your help _walking_, I don't need a physical in the emergency room, and I _don't _need a frickin'…"

His voice trailed off as his eyes settled on Wilson's face, blinking almost sleepily, as if struggling to focus. With an effort he turned his gaze in the direction Wilson was looking, toward the couch cushion on which he had just been sitting. Wilson's eyes were wide with horror, and he was staring between the dark stain on the couch cushion, and the matching deep red stain on the back of his friend's tan-colored pants.

"House…what the hell?" he muttered, aghast as he raised his eyes to meet House's suddenly averted gaze.

His brilliant blue eyes hazy and distant as he stared down at the bloody stain on the sofa, House suddenly wobbled on his feet, his weight falling more heavily on Wilson's supporting arm. He glanced up at his friend, blinking rapidly, a lost look in his wide eyes as he suddenly slumped down onto his good knee on the floor, Wilson going down with him in an attempt to hold him upright.

"House? House! What happened?" As Wilson found himself in closer proximity to his friend, one hand sliding under his jacket to help hold him up, he felt something warm and wet and sticky on his fingers, and drew his hand away with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, finding them stained with dark red blood. "House…what the…?"

"I think…" The great doctor's voice was slurred with confusion, his eyes becoming blank and unfocused, as he stared down at the blood on his friend's hand. "I think…maybe I _do_…need a doctor…"


	2. Chapter 2

"House

"House? House! Come on, now, buddy, stay with me here, okay? _House_!"

Wilson found that he was nearly yelling, struggling to keep his friend conscious. Unsure how much blood he might have lost or how badly he was injured, he was afraid to allow him to pass out, for fear that he might slip into a coma. House's head lolled backward, and Wilson could feel his body growing slack against his supportive arm around him. He shook him slightly, fighting to keep his panicked emotions in check.

"_House_! You've gotta stay awake, man, _come on_!"

"Wha…what…?" The faint groan of protest that left House's lips in response to Wilson's attempts filled the younger man with an overwhelming sense of relief, as he struggled to get back to his feet, dragging House up with him and carefully seating him on the sofa again. "Wilson…what happened?" House was looking up at him now, confused and a little dazed, but once again fully conscious.

"Thank God," Wilson sighed as he removed his arm from around House's shoulders and moved toward the phone on his desk. "Stay awake, House, you've just got to stay awake for a few more minutes, okay? I'm gonna call emergency and get a gurney up here…"

"_No_!" House's voice was suddenly clear, stronger than it had been since he'd entered Wilson's office. "Wilson…don't…"

Wilson gave him an incredulous glance over his shoulder as he picked up the phone. "Are you _kidding _me? Look at yourself, House, you're a mess! You just agreed you need a doctor, so I'm…"

"I said _a_ doctor. I _have_ a doctor," House pointed out, an urgency in his slightly trembling voice that Wilson could not quite bring himself to ignore. "You've got the creds, don't you? There's no need to call anyone else."

Wilson froze, turning toward his friend, shaking his head in disbelief, the receiver clutched tightly in his hand. "House…you're bleeding. From two different places, both of which give me great cause for concern. You're barely able to hold your head up…hell, House, you're barely able to remain conscious right now! Do you really expect me to handle this myself? You need major help right now…"

"What, are you calling into question your own ability as a doctor? What's next, you gonna sue yourself for malpractice?" House sneered, resting his head against the back of the sofa and closing his eyes.

Wilson frowned, worried by his lethargy, but assuming that at least he wouldn't give him any more trouble about calling Emergency.

_Mistakenly_ assuming.

Calmly, without raising his head or opening his eyes, House continued, "I don't want any other doctors. Just you."

"Too bad," Wilson replied without hesitation. "You can't always get what you…"

"What I _can_ do is refuse treatment if I want to."

Wilson's hand stilled above the phone, and he looked at House again, his lips parting in a stunned, disbelieving expression. Surely he wasn't serious?

"And I'm dead serious," House went on. "If you bring any other doctor into this…if anyone else tries to so much as take my blood pressure…I won't consent to so much as an aspirin."

Frustrated anger born of fear drove Wilson around to face his friend, his hand around the phone receiver falling to the desk, momentarily forgotten. "Even you could not be so monumentally stubborn and pigheaded…"

"Oh, trust me…I am the _king_ of stubborn and pigheaded."

Unfortunately, Wilson knew that to be the truth. House _was_ just stubborn enough to hold to his threat, possibly even at the expense of his own life.

"That…wasn't exactly a compliment. House…"

"I mean it, Wilson. Unless you want me to bleed to death on your couch right now, you'd better put down that phone and start doing your Hippocratic duty to me…your patient." House's voice was smug, despite the rather worrying fact that Wilson could not ignore – it was also growing steadily weaker, presumably from the pain and continued blood loss from his injuries.

And Wilson still didn't even know how badly he was injured.

With a frustrated sigh, he set down the phone and crossed the room to his friend's side again. "House, listen to me!" he snapped, his own voice quivering slightly with his fear, barely gratified by House's reluctantly returned gaze. "Do you know how ridiculous this is? This is serious! You've been…stabbed, or something…I don't even know what yet…and you could _die_!"

"Maybe you'd better do something about that…"

"House, you need to let me call emergency, you need to let a team work on you and be sure you're okay…"

"I'm not." The solemn, matter-of-fact tone of House's voice silenced Wilson's argument for the moment, as did the unusually open, troubled expression in the older man's wide blue eyes. House seemed anxious, fearful even – and that was not a level of vulnerability Wilson was accustomed to seeing in his friend. His voice was soft and unsteady as he continued, "All right? Satisfied? I'm not okay."

Wilson nodded slowly, noncommittally, relieved at the admission, but still uncertain as to where House was going with this.

"But I'm not about to die in the next five minutes, either," House assured him. "I've been stabbed in the left abdomen with a three inch blade…would have stopped bleeding on its own already if I hadn't walked up here from the parking garage," House explained with a weary tone of indulgence. "The only chance I have of dying from this wound is if I get some kind of nasty infection from the blade…'cause, you know…who knows where that thing's been, huh?"

The words were followed by a bitter laugh, as House lowered his head momentarily, shaking it as if at some private joke.

Wilson felt the uneasy feeling that had been in the pit of his stomach since the moment he had seen the blood on the back of House's pants increase, and he fought back the sudden urge to vomit as an unthinkable idea occurred to him – an idea that did not even bear thinking about.

_No…couldn't have happened…didn't happen…_

"I just…just can't let anyone else…" House's eyes dropped to his lap for a moment before he glanced up at Wilson's face again, only to immediately look off to the side again – apparently, suddenly incapable of making eye contact. "Look, Wilson, I just want you, okay? No one else…I can't…no one else." He hesitated, swallowing hard, his voice gradually softening to a whisper as he spoke. "Just you."

The fact that Wilson did not know whether the softening of his voice was due to an unusual display of emotion, or increasing physical weakness, pushed him toward a decision he did not want to make.

_Though, come to think of it, either way's a good reason to be afraid…very afraid…_

"House…why does it matter?" he asked, his own voice weary and heavy with impending resignation. "Why can't you just let me…?"

"Wilson…" House's voice was a whisper now. "Don't…don't make me explain this…not yet…" He was silent for a moment, before adding, his voice barely audible, so that Wilson wouldn't have caught the final word at all if he hadn't been watching his friend's face so closely. "…please."

It was that final word – so unusual from House's lips – that made all the difference.

Suddenly, with grim certainty he desperately longed to deny…Wilson _knew_.

It made sense now – the unexplained injuries, House's evasion of actually explaining them, his refusal to allow anyone to treat him, to the point of desperation at the thought of anyone but Wilson touching him – it was all painfully clear.

_Too_ clear.

House was looking up at him again, awaiting his decision, and Wilson clearly saw the moment of recognition, when his friend realized that he had figured it out. With a convulsive swallow, House looked away again, his jaw set with a stubborn determination not to give any more of his painful secrets away, though his mouth was working with repressed emotion.

Wilson had no desire to push him any further, as averse to the idea of seeing House break down as House was to the idea of breaking down.

"Okay," he agreed finally, his own voice quiet, and as gentle as if he were speaking to one of his youngest patients. "Okay…just me, then. No one else." As he spoke, Wilson turned away from House, toward the door. "Give me just a second, I'm gonna get a gurney myself…"

Before he could move far, however, House reached out a trembling hand to grasp his arm, stopping him. "Wilson…"

"Don't worry, it's quiet on this floor right now. Overnight staff only. I can get a gurney here and get you to a private room without anyone even noticing…"

"_Wilson_."

A question in his eyes, Wilson studied House's face, finding it suddenly difficult to meet his friend's eyes. It was too painful to see the thinly veiled anguish in his brilliant blue gaze, still clearly visible, despite the fact that his eyes were becoming alarmingly hazy. "What? What's the matter?"

"Promise me," House demanded, urgency in his voice. "You promise me. No one else. No one but you."

"I already told you, House, that's fine…"

"No, you don't get it. I'm gonna…gonna pass out in…about another minute…and…and I don't want you…ch-changing your mind, after…after…" He frowned, closing his eyes as he struggled against the overwhelming weakness that was slowly overtaking his body. "Just…just promise…" He opened his eyes, his breathing labored, even as he flashed a grin at his friend and explained with a weak shrug, "I know a…good boy scout like you…'s gotta keep a promise."

Wilson's expression softened at the affectionately mocking words, as well as House's insecurity, his fear that without a promise to hold him, Wilson might go behind his back once he had passed out.

"I promise, House."

House held his gaze for a moment longer, searching.

"I promise, okay?" Wilson repeated, impatient, but putting on a reassuring smile for his friend's benefit. "Can I get a gurney now and get you to a room and taken care of? Or should we give that infection just a little more time to really set in? Give me a challenge worthy of you?"

House's lips twisted slightly in a weak smile, before he allowed his head to fall backward against the sofa again, nodding slightly. Wilson could see him visibly relax against the cushions behind him, as if allowing himself to rest only now, now that he knew he was safe in the hands of the only human being he could bring himself to fully trust.

Wilson's eyes welled with tears as he left the room, hurrying down the hall to find a gurney. If anyone was equipped to give an accurate self-diagnosis of a stab wound such as the one House had taken, it was House himself, and chances were that his injuries were not even close to fatal. Still, Wilson would not be able to rest easy until he had seen for himself that House was all right.

_But he's_ not _all right_, he reminded himself with a sinking heart. _And he might not ever_ be _all right…not ever again…_

As much as his mind had tried to hide from the knowledge, and then to deny it, Wilson knew already what he would find when he examined his friend, and was partially grateful that House would be mercifully unconscious for the examination.

House had suffered enough indignity and humiliation for one night – for one lifetime.

As much as he wanted to un-know it, Wilson knew the truth.

House had been raped.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Wilson returned pushing the gurney, House appeared to be sound asleep, lying down on the sofa

By the time Wilson returned pushing the gurney, House appeared to be sound asleep, lying down on the sofa. He frowned, biting his lower lip as he considered his options. He hated to wake him when he had just fallen asleep, but he knew better than to think that he could lift him onto the gurney by himself.

Positioning the gurney beside the sofa, he crouched down in front of his friend, reaching out a hand to gently shake his shoulder.

"House…come on, I need you to wake up for a minute…"

House awakened with a start, cringing back away from Wilson's hand in a way that made the younger doctor wince. "What…? Don't…" he mumbled, his breath catching in his throat.

"Just me, it's all right…" Wilson soothed him softly, doing his best to ignore the implications of House's half-awake words, at least for the moment. He had to get him to a room and get his physical needs taken care of before he started thinking about the other types of injuries House would be dealing with. "I just need you to get up on the gurney, okay? I can't…"

"Of course it's just you, Nurse Nancy," House grumbled as he struggled to sit up. "Who else would it be?" The sting was taken from his smart remark by the groan of pain he bit back as he sank back down onto the sofa, unable to pull himself up. He glanced grudgingly up at Wilson, a sheepish, slightly sullen expression on his face as he realized that he was going to need his friend's help even to get up at all, and perhaps his mockery had been a bit…premature. "A little help, here?"

"Nurse Nancy to the rescue," Wilson muttered, sliding an arm cautiously around House's shoulders and helping him to sit up, moving slowly so as to jar his injuries as little as possible. "Okay…let's get you on your feet, now. It's just for a few seconds…"

House flinched, one arm bracing against his injured stomach, as Wilson bore his weight and helped him get to his feet. "Can't…can't do this…"

"Yes, you can."

Wilson kept his voice mild, gentle, as he turned his friend around so that his back was to the gurney, and helped him first to sit on its edge, and then to lie down on his side.

"There we go, see? That wasn't so hard."

"You wouldn't really know, would you?" House retorted. "And I'm not dying, so quit talking to me like I'm one of your five-year-old patients."

"Quit _acting _like a five-year-old patient and maybe I'll get the message."

House just glared up at him as Wilson carefully drew a thin hospital blanket up over his friend's shoulders, careful to cover the damage, leaving the top of the sheet bunched near House's face, to shield his features from any curious eyes they might happen to pass in the hallway. This particular floor was usually fairly deserted at night, and Wilson was confident that they would get to the nearest empty room without any trouble; but just in case, he wanted to be certain that House's privacy was preserved.

Wilson picked up House's cane and laid it on the tray beneath the mattress, then wheeled the gurney into an empty room just barely out of sight from the nurses' station, going immediately to the blinds and closing them, before locking the door and then, finally, turning on the light. He realized all at once that his heart was pounding and his palms were cool and damp as he slowly made his way back to House's side.

He really, _really_ did _not_ want to do this.

He walked around the side of the bed to face his friend – and froze, when he got a good look at House's face. Now, in the much brighter lighting of this room, he could see dark bruises forming on his face, the evidence that in addition to the other abuse he had taken, House had been dealt a brutal beating.

His expression was strangely blank, his mouth set in a thin, flat line, his eyes wide and staring at the far wall, and he appeared to be almost in shock. He was clutching the thin blanket in one hand, holding it up around the level of his throat, and Wilson noticed with dismay that he was visibly trembling. Perhaps the reality of what had happened to him was just now sinking in for House.

Or perhaps, he was simply in dread of allowing his friend to see what had been done to him.

Wilson crouched down in front of him, so that his eyes were level with those of his friend. He held his gaze for a moment, waiting until he could tell that House was finally focusing on him.

"You know," he pointed out softly, "I'm sensing a little bit of a problem with this arrangement."

House swallowed hard, a trace of humor in his eyes despite the gravity of the situation, as he replied in a self-deprecating tone, quietly mocking his own fear, "That would be your challenge, Wilson. Figure out a way to perform a physical _without_ moving the blanket."

"I don't think that technology's been invented yet." Wilson's voice was gentle, compassionate, as he gave his friend a reassuring, sympathetic smile.

"Well, why don't you go invent it…and I'll just be waiting right here," House suggested, his eyes suddenly averted, a pitiful note of hope in his voice, mingled with sorrowful resignation – because he knew that no matter how badly he wanted to, this was not something that could be avoided forever.

Wilson said nothing, just waited a long moment, until House let out a shaky sigh of reluctant acceptance. Taking the quiet sound as permission, the younger doctor reached cautiously for the corner of the blanket House clutched in his hand, gently prying it from his trembling grasp and pulling it down to rest around his waist.

_One step at a time, Wilson…just…take it slow…_

"Okay…I need to take your shirt off, all right? I need to get to that stab wound, get it cleaned up and bandaged so you don't lose any more blood. All right?"

"You don't have to explain to me why you need my shirt off, Wilson," House snapped, then added in a mockingly suggestive tone of voice, "Unless it's a case of you protesting just a little too much."

Wilson shot him a dubious look that told him how very not amusing he thought his comment was.

House scoffed quietly. "Please. Like I haven't caught you looking in the shower room. Must be the six minute abs." He paused a moment, before adding in a more serious tone of voice, "I'm still a _doctor_, Wilson. I know why you have to have my shirt off. Explaining the obvious to me does nothing to make me feel any better about the situation."

Still, in all of that – he made no move to actually help to _take_ the shirt off. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, uncertain what was the best way to handle this situation, Wilson cleared his throat.

"Um…do you want to…or…should I just…?"

The irritation in House's sigh could not mask its slight tremor as he raised his hand and began unfastening the buttons of his shirt. "I accept 20's only as tips," he informed his friend. "And look all you want, but keep your hands off the merchandise."

Wilson winced inwardly at House's choice of joke, wondering what it said about his state of mind at the moment, following…what had happened.

_You still don't really_ know _what happened_, Wilson reasoned with himself, though the greater part of him knew it was only wishful thinking. _You could be reading this all wrong. Maybe he really did just get his bike stolen. Maybe you've just seen too many movies of the week lately._

But as House finished the buttons and held his arm out for Wilson to help him pull it out of its sleeve – since he was unable to sit up, and therefore unable to gain any leverage to get it off himself – the trace of panic Wilson saw in his eyes told him that his fears were grounded in nothing less than brutal fact.

Gently, he pulled the sleeve off House's arm, then cautiously pulled the material under him and out on the other side, freeing his other arm as well. Immediately, Wilson's eyes went wide with horror as he took in the dark purple bruises that covered his friend's chest and back – most of them in perfectly straight lines, about an inch thick…

_My God…the bastard beat him with his own cane!_

Aware that there was little he could do for the bruising except to allow it to heal, Wilson swallowed back his shock, knowing that his reaction would do nothing to help House, and focused his attention instead on the ugly stab wound in his upper abdomen.

It was almost a relief to redirect his efforts toward a simple injury that was relatively easy to mend, rather than thinking about the other horrors, both physical and psychological, that his friend had endured. Perhaps that was why, as he neared the end of the task at hand, Wilson began to feel that sense of dread rising up in him again.

Once the wound was bandaged, Wilson stood up straight with a heavy, shaky sigh. "Okay. That's…that part down. Now…House…I really need to check out the…the other source of the bleeding. Okay?"

House said nothing, did not move at all, simply lay very still, staring at the wall in front of him – and his hand once more clutched at the blanket at his waist, holding it up in place. Wilson swallowed back a hard lump in the back of his throat, blinking back tears that sprang to his eyes unbidden, as he instinctively reached out a gentle hand to rest over House's clenched fist on the blanket.

"House." He hesitated a moment, before amending in a softer, more intimate tone, "_Greg_."

House looked up at him then, his eyes wide and visibly frightened, shaking his head slightly. His whispered words held a despairing tone as he replied, "I…I can't, Wilson. I…I just…can't…"

Wilson could feel his trembling, shaking the entire gurney beneath him, as he gently stroked his thumb over the back of his friend's hand, doing his best to comfort him. He had some experience with soothing panicked, traumatized individuals – even if usually they were only panicked and traumatized due to the news he had given them himself – and he employed every bit of experience he had now, in his attempt to calm his shaken friend.

"Greg," Wilson repeated his first name softly, crouching down in front of him again and holding his gaze. "It's all right. It's just me, okay? I know what happened to you…well, sort of…and I know it's impossible for you to feel safe right now…but…but nobody's here to hurt you now. Okay?"

House hesitated, and Wilson could see the struggle in his eyes, as if that part of him that insisted on constantly keeping his mask in place was still fighting against the idea of admitting what had happened. But Wilson already knew; there was no hiding it, not from this man who was closer and knew him better than any other living person.

Finally, House closed his eyes, lowering his head in shame, as he nodded his acceptance of Wilson's words. "Wilson…please," he begged in a quiet broken voice that sounded infinitely wrong coming from House. "No one…no one else can know about this. _Please_."

Relieved, though his heart was breaking for his clearly devastated friend, Wilson assured him gently, "I promise you, House, nobody else is gonna see…gonna know. It's just me…and I just wanna help. All right? Will you let me help you? I've gotta be sure you're not…" He hesitated, a grimace twisting his features as he tried again, "Gotta be sure…he didn't…" His voice trailed off, and he gave the other doctor an apologetic look as he asked in a hushed, confidential tone, "House…did he…did he wear a condom?"

"They."

The whispered word was so soft that Wilson almost didn't catch it – and when it registered with him, his heart did a horrified flip in his chest. Suddenly, he was breathless, unable to find words. He squeezed House's hand in a wordless show of support, struggling to regain his composure.

"And…no," House answered, his voice shaking dangerously, his eyes focused downward in humiliation. "I…I don't think they did."

Finally, he replied, his own voice barely over a carefully restrained whisper. "They? There was…more than one…attacker?"

House nodded, unwilling to raise his eyes to meet the concerned gaze of his friend. Wilson sounded utterly aghast at what he was revealing…and yet somehow, now, he could not help but reveal it.

"House…how…how many were there?" Wilson held his breath, hoping for the least horrible possible answer…but not receiving it.

"Four," House whispered, his voice aching with devastated shame. "There were…there were four men…who…who raped me."


	4. Chapter 4

"House…God…"

"House…_God_…"

Wilson stood at the side of the gurney where his friend lay, his lips slightly parted in an involuntary reaction of shock and horror as his mind tried to process the horrific words House had just spoken. He shook his head slightly, a part of his mind denying it still, refusing to believe that such an awful thing could have happened.

_No…not to him…not to House…_

House was studying his expression, his eyes wide and more vulnerable than Wilson was used to seeing them, as he tried to gauge his friend's reaction. After a few brief moments, he averted his eyes in shame, swallowing hard before rasping out a few whispered words.

"Don't…don't look at me like that, Wilson. It's not that…I mean…it's no big…"

Wilson's heart broke for House again when he could not even bring himself to form the words of the comforting lies he was trying to tell, trying desperately to avoid the soft sympathy he must have seen on Wilson's face. Despite his best efforts, he was fooling no one – not his best friend, who knew him better than anyone else, and certainly himself.

It _was_ that bad.

It was a _very_ big deal.

Not knowing what to say or do, Wilson reached out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder, trying to offer what little comfort he could, and well aware that words were useless in a situation such as this. He was stunned, though he knew that he shouldn't have been, when House jerked away from his touch with a little gasp, staring up at him in wide-eyed fear that lasted only a moment before he managed to conceal it again.

"Don't…don't touch me," he muttered under his breath. "Just…just don't touch me…"

Wilson waited a moment, putting his words together carefully before he crouched down in front of House and finally spoke, looking him directly in the eye. "I wouldn't…but…that's going to make this exam a little more difficult, House. We've got to be sure there's no…lasting…physical damage."

House nodded quickly, indicating his understanding, but his body was rigid with apprehension, shaken by tremors of shock and fear, and he closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head as if trying to ward off some dark image that was playing itself over and over in his mind. Wilson bit his lip, fighting with his own frustration, trying to think of a way around this understandable but unacceptable impasse.

There was no option; he was not letting House leave until he knew that he was going to be okay.

"Sedate me."

Wilson blinked in surprise, his head tilting slightly to the side as he gave House a dubious look. It was the last thing he would have expected the other man to want. In as long as he had known him, House had never been one to be willing to relinquish control to anyone else, if he could help it – and that was under normal circumstances. Tonight, House's sense of self-control and security had been violated in a profound and horrific way – and what he was suggesting would be, in a sense, giving over what was left of it to Wilson.

"Are you…are you sure that's what you want?" Wilson hedged cautiously, studying his friend's face, though his eyes were averted.

"Yes," House replied simply. When Wilson said nothing for a few seconds, he finally, reluctantly looked up, to see a single raised eyebrow on his friend's face, a silent request for explanation. He let out his breath slowly, closing his eyes as he finally whispered, his voice halting and shaky. "I trust you, Wilson, enough to let you sedate me. I know you're gonna keep your word, and I know you're not gonna…do anything I wouldn't want you to do. I wouldn't…wouldn't be here if…if I didn't. But…I think if you touch me right now…I might…_forget_ that I trust you. So…it's better all the way around if you just…put me out for this, okay?"

Wilson's eyes welled with tears, and he tried to will them away, fully aware of House's intent gaze on his face, and knowing that he would hate the sight of the compassion Wilson was feeling for him, would read it as pity and add it to the pile of shameful images that were currently pressing down on his violated spirit.

Wilson cleared his throat, nodding. "Okay," he agreed softly as he turned toward the door, grateful for the excuse to hide his face from his friend. "I'll be right back, I'm just going to go get you a sedative."

As soon as the door to the room closed behind him, Wilson allowed his tears to flow, as he strode quickly down the hallway, his head lowered to avoid the notice of any passing nurses or other night staff. Once he was sure that he was a safe enough distance from House's room to avoid the other man's either hearing, or coming out into the hall and finding him, Wilson stepped into a tiny alcove off the side of the hallway, leaned his head against the wall in front of him, and allowed the sobs he had been holding back to come.

It was unbelievably painful, seeing House like this – House, who was always, at least outwardly, so self-assured, so unshakably confident. Rather than hold the tears back any longer, Wilson just let them fall, staring down at the glistening, clear drops on the floor at his feet as he tried not to think about the specifics of what his friend had been through.

_Get it out now…any tears, any wavering…'cause you can't let it out once you get back in there,_ he mentally lectured himself. _House doesn't need to see you crying…it'll just make it harder for him; so get it out…and get back in there…_

"Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson spun around, startled by the sudden voice at his back, though it was soft and uncertain, as if the speaker was afraid to intrude. He found himself face to face with a young female nurse – _Maria? Marina?_ – who had apparently gotten stuck with overnight duty due to her newness to the hospital team, staring up at him through wide dark eyes filled with concern.

"Is everything okay, Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "Is there anything I can do?"

Swiping a hand across his eyes, embarrassed, Wilson moved awkwardly past her, back out into the hall, forcing a smile that would have been much more convincing if not for the tears that still stained his face.

"Everything's fine, it's just…um…personal. Sorry," he mumbled, heading swiftly down the hall, in the opposite direction from House's room, before she could pursue the topic. The last thing either he or House needed was for this to become the latest gossip in the hospital hallways.

He walked the circle of the halls until he was close to where he had started, taking a detour to the closest men's room along the way to wash his face and ensure that he did not look like too much of an emotional wreck before facing whoever might be on duty in the dispensary. Fortunately, it was deserted, and he simply let himself behind the counter and took the appropriate dosage of the sedative he needed, without making any kind of notation about it on the sign-out form.

_If I handle this right…no one needs to ever know he was even here tonight…_

In the quiet of the empty hospital room, alone with his thoughts, House fought not to give into the agonizing memories, still so horrifically fresh in his mind – but it was a losing battle. Their voices, their hands on his body – all were as near as if it was still happening to him, right then.

"Wilson…" he croaked out, glancing over his shoulder toward the door, though not attempting to turn over, not with the amount of pain he was in.

And there was no answer. Wilson had gone…somewhere…to get…something. He couldn't quite remember where and what through the rising panic that filled his thoughts.

He was alone.

_They could come back…they could have followed me…could be watching…waiting until I'm alone…and…and I_ am _alone…no…no…_no_…!_

_He thought he was alone in the parking garage, as he made his way slowly toward his bike, ready to go home and spend another night alone with the television. Ordinarily on a Friday night such as this, Wilson would come over with him, and they would order pizza and watch movies, and the lonely boredom of his apartment would be dispelled, at least for a little while._

_Tonight, however, Wilson was working late – and House was on his own._

_But not for long._

_He didn't think much of it as the dark blue sedan pulled into the spot next to where his motorcycle was parked. He didn't even think much of it when the passenger doors opened, and four guys got out. He froze in place, however, when the driver got out of the car, smiling a familiar, coldly smug smile in his direction._

_That moment's hesitation cost him – well, everything._

_By the time he reacted, two of the men were already behind him – large men, bulky and tall and stronger than him – and when he swung at them with his cane, one of them just snatched it from him, pulling him off balance and causing him to fall to his side on the cold cement. Before he could even think of moving, his arms were yanked behind his back, his wrists swiftly bound with something cold and metal and biting – handcuffs – and he saw the driver of the car approaching him, slowly, patiently, as if he had all the time in the world, and no concern whatsoever about getting caught._

_He felt someone digging roughly into his pockets, knew when they took the keys to his motorcycle, but was helpless to stop them; and besides – he knew that he would be lucky to get out of this with no worse than a stolen motorcycle._

_He tried to yell out for help, kicking out with his feet as best he could, but the one who had taken his cane brought it down with painful impact on his bad leg, twice, just as something was pulled over his head – a bag of some kind, or maybe a pillowcase – and a fist in the fabric twisted, pulling it tighter and tighter across his mouth and nose until he could barely draw breath. Panicked, he struggled, but the fight was useless as a heavy knee was planted in the small of his back, pushing him over onto his stomach and making it impossible for him to free himself._

_His head was yanked back by the pillowcase over his head, and he heard a soft, familiar voice whisper in his ear in a mockery of soothing reassurance._

"_Shhh…settle down, now. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself, would we?"_

_As he spoke, the man twisted the pillowcase tighter, cutting off his air supply completely – and House went still, ceasing his struggles in a desperate attempt to get it back, his body taut and trembling with the strain of the terrifying situation in which he had suddenly found himself._

"_Good…that's good…" the cold voice murmured, clearly pleased. "You're gonna be nice and quiet and cooperative, aren't you, Dr. House?" The man holding the pillowcase roughly moved his head up and down in a parody of assent, before ceasing the motion and demanding in a leading voice, "_Aren't you_?"_

_Weak from lack of oxygen and the searing pain in his leg from the blows it had taken, House wearily nodded on his own, afraid that if he didn't, he would be suffocated to death right there, and he could not allow that to happen. As long as he was alive, he had a fighting chance._

_Before the hour was over, he would wish that he _had_ allowed it to happen._

_As he was forcibly dragged into the waiting sedan, his familiar captor beside him, House's heart sank, and his mind clouded with panic, as he realized that he was being taken away from any source of help, any semblance of safety – and would likely never be returned to it again._

As Wilson approached House's room, he was immediately aware that something was terribly wrong.

He could hear the sounds of distress – moaning and muffled sobs and pleas – from the hallway outside the room. As he neared the door, he noticed with dismay, a nurse approaching from the other end of the hall, a frown of concerned confusion on her face.

When she saw him, the nurse pointed out unnecessarily, "That room's supposed to be empty…"

"Wilson," House's ragged voice called plaintively from inside the room, and Wilson could only hope that it's unusually hoarse quality and the muffling effect of the door would keep the nurse from recognizing his voice.

"It is," Wilson snapped, moving swiftly to stand in front of the door and prevent her entrance, his eyes blazing with protective determination as he added before she could protest, "Go back to your station and do your job. This has nothing to do with you."

"No…please…"

The sound of his voice tore at Wilson's heart, and the young doctor closed his eyes, fighting back a fresh wave of tears, before opening them again on the nurse, shaking his head slightly, rapidly, with one hand extended in a questioning gesture, as if to ask, _Why are you still here?_

She raised a brow dubiously, trying to see around him through the windows, though it was impossible with the shades drawn. "Dr. Wilson, is everything…?"

"Everything's fine," he cut her off abruptly, in a tone that belied his words. Then, softer, he added, "Everything's going to be…just fine. I just need you…to walk away. All right? Trust me. You don't need to know what's going on. I can handle it?"

_Can you? Can you really?_

His subconscious taunted him with whispered doubts, even as his heart flooded with relief when the nurse finally backed down, shaking her head and muttering to herself as she made her way back down the hall the way she had come.

Unsure what sort of nightmare flashback House might be having, or what he could do about it, or if he was anything even remotely approaching ready to deal with this at all, Wilson took a deep breath and opened the door to his friend's room, then stepped resolutely inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson hurried into the room, closing the door carefully behind him before moving swiftly around the gurney to face his friend

Wilson hurried into the room, closing the door carefully behind him before moving swiftly around the gurney to face his friend. Though House was moaning and writhing on the narrow bed, as if desperately struggling to escape some unseen foe, his eyes were closed, and he might have appeared to be asleep and battling a nightmare, had Wilson not known better.

This was a textbook PTSD flashback.

"No…please!" House fairly sobbed, his hands fisting in the blanket that was now tangled around his legs. "Wilson…"

_Too bad I've never actually dealt with textbook PTSD._

"House," Wilson murmured, keeping his voice low, not wanting to risk being overheard by any curious ears outside the door, as he crouched beside the gurney and reached out a gentle hand to rest on House's arm. "House, it's just me…it's Wilson…I'm here, okay?"

But the moment his hand touched House's sweat-dampened skin, the other doctor jerked away from him as if scalded by his touch, his body lurching across the narrow gurney. Wilson moved quickly, an arm around House's back preventing him from falling off the gurney onto the floor on the other side – but the gentle touch only seemed to further panic his friend, whose body clenched under his hand, trembling violently.

"Don't," House whispered, his eyes tightly closed, gasping out the words in a breathless, rasping voice. "Don't…touch me…don't…please…"

Wilson's heart lurched at the words, and his stomach clenched at the thought of his bold, confident friend reduced to such pleading desperation – and what it must have taken to achieve such a dreadful result. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head slightly.

_Control…get control, Wilson…can't fall apart…gotta be strong for him…_

"_House_!" he spoke more firmly, though not raising his voice, wanting to break him out of his waking nightmare, but afraid of further frightening him if he spoke too loudly. "House…it's just me…it's okay, you're okay…"

He dared not move his hand, not when he had no way of knowing how House might react in his desperate, irrational state. He momentarily considered simply injecting his friend with the sedative, but the idea of sedating him without first breaking him out of his nightmare filled him with revulsion. It seemed somehow – underhanded, and even a bit dismissive of the ordeal his friend had been through.

"House…it's okay…it's Wilson…it's just me…it's all right…House…look at me…"

Eventually the soft, familiar voice and Wilson's gentle hand, moving in soothing little circles around his shoulder blade, began to draw House out of his hallucination. He slowly, apprehensively opened his eyes, blinking in confusion as he took in his friend's face, now inches from his own. He glanced over his shoulder, apparently surprised to see Wilson's hand on his shoulder, before meeting his friend's gaze again with a question in his eyes.

"Wha…what…?"

"You went away for a minute," Wilson explained with a smile, doing his best to replace the sorrow and despair he was feeling with humor in his dark eyes. "But you're here now." He paused, his smile fading to a serious expression, as he reassured House softly, "You're here, in the hospital…you're safe."

House looked away, immediately uncomfortable with the gentle concern he heard in Wilson's voice, as well as the scene he knew he must have made. The memories were still playing over in the back of his mind, and a cold shudder shook him as he tried to close them out. He masked his struggle and embarrassment with an irritated roll of his eyes, turning his head away, his words muttered under his breath.

"Oh, for God's sake, just sedate me already!"

Wilson hesitated for a moment, studying House's face, before sighing his acceptance and taking the syringe filled with sedative from his pocket. House's humiliation at Wilson's seeing his weakness, knowing what had happened to him at all, was a palpable presence in the room with them. He wasn't sure if avoidance of what had happened was the best tactic right now – he wasn't really sure of anything at all when it came to this horrific situation – but he was more than willing to spare his friend the torment of his thoughts and memories, at least for a little while.

"Okay," he agreed, his voice quiet and subdued as he nodded and reached uncertainly for House's arm, stopping just short of touching it, and allowing House to extend it the rest of the way.

House cringed, not missing Wilson's caution, and obviously hating himself for the fear he had shown that had led to it, even as he held out his arm for the needle. "Maybe you should double the dosage…triple it, even."

"Don't be ridiculous, that would kill you," Wilson muttered, fully aware that House knew that, and giving him a sharp glance, wondering just how he had meant those words.

House said nothing to clear up the question, and closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath of relief as he waited for the sedative to take effect. His voice trembled slightly, barely more than a whisper, and Wilson was startled when he felt a weak, shaking hand brush against his arm for just a moment, before falling back down onto the gurney.

"Thank you."

This time, Wilson allowed the tears that welled in his eyes to fall, knowing that House would never know. He was already out, the tension easing from his shoulders as the drugs took effect, sending him into a mercifully dreamless sleep. He would be asleep for hours, so Wilson knew he had plenty of time for the examination he really, _really_, did not want to perform.

But he had no choice.

_Pull yourself together, Wilson…get it together and do what you have to do…_

Carefully, he pulled the blanket down, pulling it out from under House's legs and discarding it to the floor. He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry, as his shaking hands moved toward the front of House's pants. As much as he knew that he was doing what he had to in order to help his friend, this still felt like a violation.

_He'd never want you to see so much…not with him so vulnerable…_

_But…it doesn't matter what he wants right now. You've got to do this. You've got to think about what's best for him, not what he wants – or what _you _want. Stop being his friend, Wilson – and start being his doctor._

Strangely, the stern voice in his head sounded very much like House's voice.

Steeling himself for the damage he knew he would find, Wilson unfastened House's pants and underwear, and gently slid them down his legs and off, adding them to the piled blanket on the floor.

As much as he had tried to prepare himself – Wilson was completely unprepared for the extent of the damage that had been done to his friend. He felt a sick sensation in the back of his throat, a protective rage rising up in him as his wide, shocked eyes took in the countless injuries that covered House's still, naked form.

Fighting back the nausea, telling himself that there would be plenty of time later on to find the men responsible and see that they were punished, Wilson forced himself to focus on his medical training and what he had to do. To his credit, he was vaguely aware that he was stalling as he moved to the head of the gurney, inspecting the dark bruises and minor scrapes that marred House's face.

He frowned, alarmed when he noticed a strange band of bruising that formed an almost perfect circle around his neck. The bruises were nearly purple already, and the skin around them was raw, abraded.

"What the hell?" Wilson muttered to himself, leaning in closer, trying to determine what could be the cause of the strange injury.

_Maybe he'll tell me…later, when he's…oh, who am I kidding?_

Resigning himself to the fact that the strange marks would have to remain a mystery, Wilson moved lower in his inspection of House's body, noting the symmetrical bruises he had noticed before on his torso, realizing with a sort of muted horror that they were not restricted to his torso alone. His buttocks and legs, even his groin, were badly bruised in the same manner. Wilson's heart lurched as he realized that besides being raped, House had been very deliberately, systematically beaten on every inch of his body.

_This doesn't seem random…seems…very specific…targeted…_

Deciding that before House left the hospital, he would have to perform the appropriate tests to be sure there was no internal injury, Wilson moved further downward – and froze, suddenly realizing that he had no further reason to put off the inevitable, ultimate invasion of his friend's privacy and dignity. Trying to think of it as any random patient – anyone but House – Wilson gently rolled him over onto his stomach.

He winced, not wanting to, but unable to keep from imagining the pain his friend must have endured, as he noted the dark bruising, the massive tearing that had been inflicted on him. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, Wilson noted with relief – but the sheer _amount_ of the blood House had lost was a cause for concern. Wilson had seen a few victims of male rape before, and he had never seen so much bleeding in any of them.

Upon closer inspection, Wilson discovered something that made him feel all the more horrified, but explained the excess bleeding. In addition to the damage he had expected to find, the ragged marks of tearing, there were also other marks – straight, even cuts that seemed to have been made by a weapon of some kind…

Abruptly, Wilson's nausea overwhelmed him, as the horrific truth hit him, and he whirled around, leaning over the sink and vomiting, gasping for breath, struggling to keep his eyes open in spite of it all, because when he closed them, he could see it in his mind – the vicious brutality of the attack, the savage violation that had been inflicted on his best friend. It had not been enough for his rapists to abuse and degrade him; they had felt the need to increase his suffering and humiliation by assaulting him not only with their own bodies – but with a knife, as well.

_I'll kill them…I'll track them down, and I'll kill them for this!_

His hands shaking, almost frantic, Wilson poured himself a paper cup of water, allowing the water to run to rinse out the sink as he gulped the water and rinsed his mouth. He grabbed a paper towel and wet it, using it to wash his face, struggling to regain his composure.

This was not over yet.

Returning his attention to his patient, Wilson set about cleaning the wounds as gently as he could. He was aware that under the powerful sedatives he had administered, House would not feel any pain, but he still felt the need to be as cautious and gentle as possible.

_Evidence…gotta be sure I gather the evidence…_

Although the very idea disgusted him, and Wilson was quite sure that House would resist any suggestion of going to the authorities, he set aside the fluids he found in his friend's body, saving the evidence of the crime in a vial, so that if he _could _convince House to enlist the aid of the police, they would have DNA to prove the identity of his attackers.

His work of cleaning and bandaging House's injuries finally complete, Wilson got a new, clean blanket and laid it over his unconscious friend, doing his best to make sure that he was comfortable, wishing that he could move him from the narrow gurney into a real hospital bed. Then, his eyes widened with realization as he suddenly remembered the cane he had placed on the tray beneath the gurney.

_Fingerprints…there'll be fingerprints on the cane…_

Stripping off the dirty gloves he had just used for the examination, Wilson tossed them into the trash disposal and reached for a fresh pair, not wanting to leave his own fingerprints on the cane when he picked it up. He reached under the tray and pulled out the cane, looking it over thoughtfully, hoping that the men hadn't worn gloves, and had left some kind of halfway decent prints on the thing.

Suddenly, his eyes went wide with shock and he dropped the cane to the floor with a clatter that sounded exceptionally loud in the lonely stillness of the room, shaking his head in horror as he stared down at it, his mind struggling to deny what it already knew to be true.

He had found evidence, all right – evidence of an act he did not want to imagine, a degradation, an insult so obscene that it did not bear thinking about.

But Wilson could not help but think of anything else, the nightmare images flooding his mind against his will.

The rubber stopper on the base of the cane had been removed, leaving only the rough wood beneath – and the bottom six inches or so of the wood was stained dark red with blood.


	6. Chapter 6

Miraculously, Wilson managed somehow to sneak House, still unconscious, down the hall and onto the next floor to perform the necessary internal scans to determine whether or not there was any internal injury, without drawing the attention of any of the h

Miraculously, Wilson managed somehow to sneak House, still unconscious, down the hall and onto the next floor to perform the necessary internal scans to determine whether or not there was any internal injury, without drawing the attention of any of the hospital's overnight staff.

Equally miraculous was the fact that House had no injuries to his internal organs from the beating and the other horrors he had experienced. Relieved, Wilson returned him to the patient room he had been using; but his relief was short-lived, his thoughts returning to the ghastly cuts he had seen during his examination.

House was going to need surgery to repair them, and some time in the hospital, hooked up to a colonic catheter, in order to avoid infection.

_And as much as he's gonna hate it…that means someone besides me is gonna have to know…_

Wilson dreaded the idea of trying to convince House to tell anyone his shameful secret, but there was no avoiding the conversation. He would not break his promise to his friend, would not betray his privacy and dignity – not without at least talking to him and giving him a damn good reason why.

So, with nothing else to do until House awakened, Wilson sat at the side of the gurney, watching him sleep, and trying not to think too much about what he had been through that night, and the agony that awaited him, both physical and emotional, upon waking.

Lisa Cuddy groaned as the shrill sound of the telephone ringing on her nightstand invaded a rather pleasant dream she had been having, drawing her reluctantly from the warm comfort of sleep to awaken in the darkness of her bedroom. Her vision still blurry from sleep, she fumbled with one hand for the phone, finally finding the receiver and somehow managing to get it to her ear.

"Hello?" She did her best to sound as professional as possible, though she was sure her exhaustion showed it her sleep.

_It's not as if I actually get much sleep to begin with…and then they've got to call me at… _She glanced at the red glowing numbers on the clock on the nightstand, sighing her frustration. _God…3:00am! _Suddenly feeling much more alert with apprehension, Cuddy sat up in the bed, frowning as she waited for whoever was calling to speak. _What's wrong? Something must have happened…_

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy?"

"Yes…who's this?"

"This is Sarah Martin; I'm working the overnight shift at the hospital tonight? I'm so sorry to call you so late, I just…well…I thought maybe you should…know about this…"

"What is it? What's happened?" Cuddy did her best not to sound impatient, but it took quite an effort.

"Well…I've been debating whether or not to bring this up…because…well, it might be nothing…but I really don't think so…"

"Uh huh."

Cuddy hurried her along with her curt response, wishing the woman – whose face she could not even place – would just hurry up and spit it out, so she could either stop worrying and go back to sleep, or get up and get dressed and down to the hospital, if it turned out that she was needed there.

"Well…it involves Dr. Wilson…he's still here…"

"He said he was working late tonight," Cuddy pointed out, though she frowned at the nurse's words. After all, 3:00am was an awfully late night, even for a doctor as dedicated as Wilson.

"I think it might also involve…um…Dr. House…"

Cuddy sighed, resting her forehead in her hand as she closed her eyes. She really needed to hear no more to know that she had gotten all the rest she was going to get for the night. She rose from the bed, already reaching for the outfit she had laid out for the next morning.

"Give me twenty minutes. I'll be right there."

_House's leg screamed in protest as he was dragged from the car, half-supported by his familiar captor, who held his arm in a painful grip and yanked him along at his side, at a pace much too rapid for House to reasonably keep up, especially blindfolded and without his cane. When his foot came in contact with some obstruction – a rock, or a root, or some such thing – the doctor went down, his leg giving out beneath him as he struggled in vain to regain his balance without his sight._

_The strong man beside him jerked him upright again, a hard hand grasping his throat and squeezing painfully through the pillowcase that still covered his head, as he stopped their advance long enough to snarl in his ear, "Keep up, Dr. House. You don't want me to lose my patience."_

"_Yeah," House gasped out around the hand painfully obstructing his breath. "That's easier…said than done…asshole…"_

_The man barked out a short laugh of surprise, and House felt his hand move away from his throat, heard the difference in the distance of his voice as the man stepped backward for a moment._

"_Asshole," he repeated under his breath, and House could almost hear him shaking his head in sarcastic amusement. "That's really impressive, Dr. House. Not the vocabulary. In fact, that's one of your weaker comebacks, really. It's just really amazing how brazen and arrogant you still are, even now…"_

_Suddenly, rough hands shoved him backward, and House winced, biting back a cry as his back impacted painfully against something hard and rough and unyielding – a tree, maybe? He didn't have time to think about it, because in the next instant a heavy boot connected with his right thigh, crushing it between the man's foot and the trunk of the tree behind him. He fought to maintain his silence through the pain, though he could not hold back a faint groan as his tormentor delivered a second blow, just like the first, only harder, and the damaged limb exploded in agony._

"_Oh, I'm sorry…" There was patronizing, false regret in the words. "…is your leg giving you some trouble, then? Maybe we should slow down a little, give you a chance to rest it." And then, the choking hand was back at his throat, cutting off his oxygen and slamming his head painfully against the rough surface behind him, as the menacing voice whispered in his ear, "Or maybe you should do as you're told and keep up. You're gonna do as I say, and you're gonna keep your smart mouth shut…aren't you?"_

_Despite the dangerous situation he was in, despite his knowledge that the wisest thing would be to simply go along with them for now…House couldn't quite bring himself to do it. His jaw set, and because he knew the man could not see it, he deliberately squared his shoulders, even as he struggled to draw each breath, unable to form the defiant words he wanted to speak._

_The result was another vicious kick to his thigh that made colored flashes of light appear in the darkness that surrounded him, and would have sent him to his knees, had he not been held up by the hand clamped tightly around his throat._

"_Aren't you?" the voice whispered again, and House could hear the malicious pleasure in the sound._

_Finally, knowing that another blow would be likely to leave him completely incapacitated, House nodded hurriedly, as best he could against the restraining hand that held him._

"_See, that's so much better. Things are gonna go so much easier for you if you just do as I say," his captor informed him softly as his hand shifted from his throat to the collar of his jacket, and began dragging him once more toward their unknown destination._

In his memory, House did not know the words to be a lie, though he _did _have his suspicions; but in reality, he already knew what happened next, knew the horror of degradation and torment he was about to go through – and his weakened, damaged body fought against it.

As the sedative began to wear off in the quiet hours of the early morning, House began to thrash in the blanket that covered him, moaning quietly, his face contorting in an unfamiliar mask of fear and pain.

"Please…don't…sorry…please…"

The words were barely a whisper, but Wilson heard them clearly in the stillness of the room – and they stole his breath. His heart lurched in sympathetic pain for his friend, and he moved forward quickly, wanting to wake him up, to break him out of the nightmare that had gripped him.

_Yeah…but wake him up to_ what?

Wilson's dark thoughts were full of anger toward the men that had done this, that had left House no refuge either in wakefulness or in dreams. Still, merely remembering what had been done to him had to be _slightly_ better than reliving it – didn't it?

He leaned forward in the chair he had pulled to the side of the gurney, gentle hands shaking House's shoulders, trying not to jar his injuries too much as he did.

"House," he murmured, careful to keep his voice soft and gentle. "House…wake up, House…it's just a dream…"

But the light touch of his hand seemed to further agitate the older man, whose moaning grew louder as he jerked away from Wilson's hands. "No," he cried out quietly, his voice breaking over the word. "Don't…not again…don't…"

Wilson shook him harder, biting his lower lip as he thought of the deep purple bruises that covered his friend's body, and the more sensitive injuries he had sustained from the rape. He did not want to hurt House, but he had to wake him up; the nightmare was only getting worse.

"House…wake up…it's just me, it's Wilson, you've got to _wake up_!" he insisted, the tone of his voice verging on desperation.

"Let go of me, you bastard!" House nearly shouted in anguished fury, as he shook Wilson's hands off him once more, a single arm lashing out in a sightless, flailing blow, designed to drive the restraining grip away – and succeeding in bloodying his best friend's lip.

Instinctively, Wilson let him go, his hand going to his lip, touching it, then coming away wet with blood where it was split. He looked back at House, suppressing the twinge of irritation brought on by the pain, reminding himself that at the moment, House could not be held responsible for his own actions.

_If I'd been through what he's been through…I'd be trying to knock out anyone who came close enough to touch, too…_

Steeling himself for the ordeal that was not over yet, Wilson turned back toward House, ignoring the pain in his mouth for the moment as he reached out to catch House's wrists, drawing them down in front of him in an attempt to control his wild flailing, before he managed to hurt himself.

"_House_!" He raised his voice with urgency, leaning in close to his face. "_Wake up_!"

Suddenly, bright light fell on them as the door opened, and Wilson barely had time to register it with alarm, before the door was closed again. Struggling to both restrain his nearly frantic friend, and deal with the sudden intrusion upon his privacy, he tried to turn toward the door and see who had dared to enter.

"Get out!" he snarled, just as he turned.

"Oh, my God."

The soft, familiar voice froze him in his tracks, before he could continue with the verbal assault that sprang to his mind, and Wilson's eyes went wide with horror. A part of him felt relief, at the idea of handing over this tremendous, unfathomable burden to someone who might have the authority to handle it better – but the greater part of him knew that for this person to see House in all his weakness and vulnerability was likely more abhorrent to the diagnostician than if it was a stranger.

"Dr. Cuddy," he whispered, eyes wide and trapped as he stared at her.

Cuddy was staring back at him, confused, incredulous, and very concerned when her eyes finally left his and focused on his patient, still struggling weakly on the bed. "Wilson…what…? What's happened? What's wrong with him?"

Wilson ignored her questions, his jaw setting stubbornly as he turned his back to her and returned his attention to House, who finally seemed to be surfacing from the overwhelming world of his nightmares. He felt a sense of irritation, but still said nothing, as Cuddy moved slowly to the foot of the gurney to get a better look at House.

"My God…"

She breathed out the words, staring at the dark bruises that covered every exposed inch of House's skin – which, thankfully, was not much. Despite his struggles, House had not managed to shift the blanket that covered him all that much.

"House? Are you awake? Come on, look at me," Wilson urged him as the other doctor's struggles finally stilled. "Look at me, buddy, come on."

Abruptly House opened his eyes, wide and startlingly blue amidst the discoloration that marred his face. He blinked sleepily, confused, as he took in the room around him, and Wilson, leaning over him anxiously.

"I…I don't…" He shook his head, frowning in confusion. Finally, he answered his own question, concluding quietly, "It was…just a dream. Just…a nightmare, right?"

Wilson nodded, lowering his head slightly in relief – and allowing House to see past him to Cuddy, still standing at the foot of the bed. The sudden clenching of House's arms under his hands, the utter stillness and silence of his friend, was the first thing to alert Wilson that something was wrong. He looked up, dark eyes questioning as he met House's gaze again, and then followed it to its focus.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "House…it's not…"

"Get out," House whispered, his eyes never leaving Cuddy's face, and Wilson was uncertain which of them he was talking to.

"House…she doesn't…"

Cuddy interrupted Wilson before he could explain, frowning with concern as she said, "I just wanted to see if you were okay, House. I'm not…"

"Get. Out."

"Dr. Cuddy," Wilson began cautiously, noting the odd gleam in his friend's eyes, the beginnings of angry, humiliated, frustrated tears that would only make things so much worse if the dean saw them, "Maybe you'd better step outside for a minute."

Cuddy swallowed hard, House's strange, frightening demeanor not lost on her, and after a moment's hesitation she nodded reluctantly, stating, "I'll just be right in the hall. I'll give you two a minute…"

"House," Wilson tried again, turning toward him as Cuddy started for the door. "I didn't…"

"Are you deaf?" House snapped, his voice trembling dangerously, tears glistening on his cheeks as he met Wilson's eyes, his own smoldering blue flames of rage. "I said _get out_!"

His heart ached at the sight of his friend's tears, but Wilson shook his head firmly, glancing downward in apology before looking back up to meet House's eyes, not without compassion in his own. "I…don't think that's a good idea right now…"

Suddenly, violently, House shook his hands off his arms, jerking away from Wilson as he lurched to the side of the bed, struggling to get to his feet. "I want you gone. I want you out of here, _now_!" he demanded, the last word turning into a near-shout of frustration.

"House…don't…"

Dismayed as House tried to stand on the other side of the bed, only to drop immediately and painfully to his knees when his leg failed to support him, Wilson went around the bed, reaching down to help him up again. House was already pulling himself up on shaking arms, dragging himself to his feet with a weak, unsteady grip on the gurney, which looked in danger of toppling over at any moment.

"Get away," he muttered, not looking at Wilson, his face streaked with tears as he struggled against his own injuries, and the pain of the betrayal he thought his friend had committed. "Get away from me. I trusted you…"

Wilson ignored him, determined to make him understand as he took House's arm in his hand and tried to lift him to his feet. "House, you don't get it. I didn't…"

"Don't _freakin' _touch me!"

The words were a roar of fury and fear, as the older doctor pulled away from him, overcompensating as he started to fall backward, and accidentally yanking the gurney over onto its side with a terrific clatter of metal crashing against tile as he fell to a sitting position on the floor, letting out a cry of pain as his damaged body impacted with the hard floor.

Miraculously, the gurney's wheels slid to the side as it fell, and it landed harmlessly on the floor, inches from House's damaged body, without falling on him and causing him further damage. For a moment both men were utterly silent, surveying the results of their altercation with wide, stunned eyes. House finally stared up at Wilson, eyes wide and shell-shocked, shaking his head slightly in hurt and disbelief at Wilson's perceived betrayal.

"House, I didn't tell her. I don't know how she knows, or how much she knows, but I didn't tell her a word, I swear." The words came out in a frantic, trembling rush, Wilson determined to get the truth into his friend's head while he was quiet enough to hear it. "God, House, do you think I would do that to you?"

House was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was ragged, hushed, teetering dangerously on the edge of a sob. "Sorry," he rasped out, his eyes averted, "if my faith in humanity's not what it usually is. It's taken a bit of a blow tonight."

Wilson's expression softened, melting with the tears that all at once streaked his face, as he dropped to his knees in front of his friend, reaching out instinctively to take his hands. House pulled away, weakly pushing at Wilson, shaking his head as he scooted back along the floor until his back was against the wall.

"Don't," he whispered. "Don't touch me, don't touch me…"

But Wilson persisted, gently, well aware that House was not afraid of Wilson physically harming him, but of his own emotional reaction to any tender touch at the moment – and that reaction needed to come, as hard as it might be. Wilson followed as House retreated, holding onto his hands as he shuffled forward on his knees.

"House…it's all right…" he murmured, leaning in close, one hand trailing gently up and down House's bare, bruised arm. "It's okay…"

"Don't…" House shook his head harder, his lower lip trembling slightly before he bit it to stop the telling motion, looking away as his tears flowed harder. "Don't touch me…I don't wanna…don't wanna…"

His words dissolved as he lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with the almost violent onslaught of the sobs he had been repressing. Feeling shattered by the raw emotions of his friend, laid bare to his eyes and his eyes alone, Wilson allowed his own tears to flow as he moved closer, following his instincts as he turned so that his own back was to the wall beside House, and wrapped warm, protective arms around his friend's shoulders.

"Shhh…it's all right," he whispered. "It's over…it's okay, you're safe here…safe with me…"

Both men were acutely aware of the double meaning of his words, and House finally accepted that they were true, turning into his friend's embrace, lowering his head to his shoulder and allowing Wilson to just hold him, there on the floor, as the sobs shook his body. Wilson pulled him closer, one hand running soothingly up and down his back – accepting and encouraging House's open grief in his arms as the honor it really was.

He would allow no one else to see him like this.

"It's okay…you're safe…it's all right, just let it out…"

House clung to him, allowing himself to be held, as he poured out his pain and shame with his tears, the two of them holding on for dear life in the midst of the debris that a single night of cruelty had left.

"Please…" House whispered, trembling hands rising to clutch Wilson to him. "D-don't…don't let go…don't let go…"

"I won't, House," Wilson promised, blinking his own tears away to clear his vision, sniffling back a sob. "I won't…you're safe now…you're safe…it's over…it's all over…"

But both knew that it was far from over.

In more ways than one, House's nightmare was only just beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson sat on the floor, just holding his friend, letting him cry it out until, for the moment at least, House seemed to have no more tears to cry

Wilson sat on the floor, just holding his friend, letting him cry it out until, for the moment at least, House seemed to have no more tears to cry. His sobbing gradually subsided, and his body began to feel slack and heavy against Wilson's chest. He kept gently rubbing his back, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles, until he felt the clenched fists clutching tightly at the sides of his shirt begin to relax, and then finally fall away.

Uncertain whether House had fallen asleep again, or was simply exhausted beyond measure by his emotional outpouring, Wilson pulled cautiously back a little, trying to get a look at his friend's face, his voice a hushed, careful whisper.

"House?"

House did not respond, but the deliberate resistance Wilson felt when he tried to shift the older man's head off of his shoulder and look at him told him that House was still very much awake, but also very much unwilling to allow Wilson the look he was trying to get. Wilson's heart softened with sympathy at the realization that even – _especially – _after the last few minutes of such open vulnerability, House was ashamed to allow him to see the tears that streaked his face, the raw emotions that were certainly still evident in his eyes.

"Hey," Wilson tried again, his voice still soft and gentle as he tried to think of a way to make House okay with what he knew had to happen next. "Um…this might not be a good time to bring this up, but…well…Cuddy's still waiting outside."

House's wordless, pleading groan, muffled against his shoulder, was perhaps the most pitiful thing Wilson had ever heard.

"She knows something's up, House," Wilson insisted quietly. "And…and you're hurt pretty bad. You're…you're going to need surgery. If Cuddy knows what's going on…well…at least she might be able to keep anybody else from finding out."

House shook his head against Wilson's shoulder, and though the words were mostly smothered by the stiff, pressed fabric, Wilson could still hear his response clearly. "No. I can't tell her, Wilson. She can't know about this…"

"House…at this point, we…don't really have a choice." Wilson spoke the words as gently as possible, his hand resuming its soothing motion on House's back, desperate to soften the humiliating blow he knew his friend was about to have to take. "But if we go ahead and tell her…she has friends, colleagues, with no connection to this hospital, no knowledge of you at all. She can get you the care you need, without anyone having to know what's happened."

House still did not relent, but he went very still against Wilson, no longer shaking his head in protest or voicing any objections.

"I'll tell her," Wilson offered softly. "And I'll tell her as little as possible. You won't have to say anything to her about it."

House remained quiet for a few tense moments longer – before finally nodding, almost imperceptibly, in obvious defeat. Despite the fact that he knew there was no other choice, Wilson felt horribly guilty, responsible somehow for the blow to his friend's dignity that was about to take place.

"Fine," House mumbled without raising his head. "Tell her. What do I care? It's not like I've got any pride left to lose, anyway…"

"House…" Wilson hesitated, phrasing his words carefully as he went on, "…you know she cares. She's…your friend. She's not going to make this harder on you than it already is. She'll just want to help – and right now, I think her help is the kind we need."

"The powerful woman-in-charge, take-no-crap-from-anyone-unless-they're-me kind?" House suggested, finally, _finally _lifting his head from Wilson's shoulder, though he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes yet, the faint traces of a smile he couldn't quite force playing about the edges of his mouth.

"Yep, that would be the kind."

Wilson agreed with a nod, taking House's cue to slowly remove his arms from around his friend, giving House's arm a gentle squeeze as he climbed awkwardly to his feet. Once he was standing, he reached down to place a cautious arm around House's back, under his arms, to help pull him up to his feet, and then supported him, patiently leading him toward the actual, full-size hospital bed a few feet away.

He helped him get comfortable, resting his back and neck against the soft mattress, set in a semi-seated position, then stepped back, glancing nervously toward the door before meeting his friend's apprehensive eyes again.

"I have to go talk to her," he stated, quite unnecessarily. "Just rest, okay? I'll…worry about the mess when I get back. Will you…be…?"

"I'll be fine," House cut him off, impatient with his concern, nodding, but averting his gaze again, clearly uncomfortable. "I'll be here," he added simply, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the pillow – though there was absolutely nothing restful about the tension Wilson could see in the taut muscles of his neck and shoulders.

"Are you sure, because…I could have her come in here to tell her…?"

"No," House said in a voice that was trembling but emphatic. "No, I…I don't want to be…" He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, clearly frustrated with himself. "I want _you _to tell her…and I don't want her staring at me like a side show freak while you do. Just…just go. I don't plan on falling asleep anytime soon, so…should be fine."

Wilson frowned, troubled by the words, not wanting to bring up the point that House had already had one flashback while fully awake, and that that flashback had been what alerted the nurses to his presence, and probably what had gotten Cuddy there in the first place.

Wisely, he just replied, "I'll only be a few minutes," and then turned toward the door, glancing at his watch to note with surprise that half an hour had passed since Cuddy had walked out to give them "a minute". A sense of gratitude and relief filled him, as he was reassured of his own words to House, that Cuddy would be more of a help in this difficult situation than a hindrance.

Although she had to appear professional, unruled by her emotions, most of the time, Wilson knew that there was a maternal instinct under the surface of her tough, no-nonsense exterior – an instinct which was probably responsible, when all was said and done, for the fact that House still had a job. He just had to trust that, in this situation as in many others, that maternal instinct would lead to her making the right decisions for House and his well-being.

So far, her instincts seemed to be right on the money.

Of course – she had no idea yet what they were dealing with.

She was standing with her back to the door, her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently, when he walked into the hall. She turned at the sound of the door closing, her eyes wide and alarmed, and Wilson gave her an apologetic half-smile that was nothing more than a formality.

At the moment, he could not think of any genuine reason to smile.

"Wilson," she gasped out in relief, her arms dropping to her sides as she stepped toward him. "_What _is going on in there? I heard…"

"I know," Wilson cut her off in a hushed voice, glancing in the direction of the nurse's station, which was thankfully a good distance from House's room, but clearly still within earshot. "Let's…talk in your office."

Cuddy frowned, confused, as she gestured toward House's room. "Why can't we just...?"

"We just can't," Wilson interrupted again, his voice low and cautious. "I'll explain it all to you. But…I don't wanna be gone long…"

Cuddy studied his expression for a long moment, casting a concerned glance toward the door, before she sighed her reluctant acceptance. "All right. Let's go."

"Um…" Wilson hesitated, glancing again toward the nurse's station, where the same nurse he had directed away from House's room was now watching them with barely veiled curiosity. "...before we go anywhere…" He met Cuddy's eyes, willing her to see how important his request was. "…I have to know that _no one _is going to go in that room."

Cuddy considered for a moment, then nodded firmly, following his gaze toward the nurse's station. Under her piercing glance, the nurse immediately looked away, trying to appear busy with something on her desk. Cuddy's expression hardened slightly, and Wilson followed her, curious, as she made her way swiftly across the room to the nurse's station.

"Sarah, is it?"

Her words had a sharp edge to them that would have made even Wilson wilt had that tone been turned on him. He watched Cuddy's face through lowered eyes, daring a glance now and then at the object of her austere focus – the suddenly very nervous nurse who apparently had been the one to turn them in.

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy?"

"I appreciate your call, letting me know about the situation. Now, I'd appreciate some additional help from you in this matter."

"Yes, Dr. Cuddy, whatever I can do…"

"No one is to enter that room while we're gone, and you are to mention Dr. House's presence in this hospital to no one. Is that clear?" Cuddy's eyes flashed ice blue fire at the self-conscious young woman, who could barely seem to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.

"Yes, Ma'am," Sarah replied, her voice quiet and uncertain, and Wilson caught her glancing toward House's room again, almost wistfully, as if she had intended to find out for herself what was going on the moment they were out of sight.

"See the security camera right there?" Cuddy asked, gesturing toward a camera positioned on the ceiling a few yards from House's door.

Sarah nodded.

"That will let me know if anyone goes into that room at all in the next few minutes," she explained, her voice cool and calm, yet still holding a note of warning as her eyes locked onto Sarah Martin's and refused to let go. "If anyone _does _manage to get into that room, that person and _you_, Sarah – even if they should happen to be one and the same – will be immediately fired. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Sarah nodded again, swallowing hard, her eyes wide and frightened.

Cuddy never even stopped smiling, that same cool, professional smile that she had so long ago perfected.

It was really a fearful and beautiful thing, Wilson thought with something resembling awe.

He followed Cuddy to her office, completely confident that House would be left alone while they were gone. However, as they neared the privacy of the room where he would reveal the horrific secret that so far had been shared with him alone, Wilson began to feel nervous, the sick sensation returning to the pit of his stomach, his mind racing in an alternating loop of panic and denial.

_This can't be real…can't have really happened…but…once I say it out loud…once I tell her…oh, God, _House_…how can this really be happening?_

He closed the door to Cuddy's office behind him with shaking hands, before sitting down in the chair in front of her desk. She was already seated in her own chair, and staring at him expectantly.

"Well?" she asked, impatient as she leaned forward, her arms crossed on her desk. "What's happened? What has he done to himself now?"

Given House's rather long and colorful history, it was not an unreasonable question.

Given the truth of his current circumstances, Wilson found the question infuriating.

"It's always his fault, isn't it?" he snapped, his voice trembling with rage. "You've always gotta try and find some way for him to be in the wrong! God, he's gonna tend to blame himself anyway, and if _this _is how you're gonna be about it, then maybe I shouldn't say anything!"

Cuddy's eyes were wide; she was taken aback by Wilson's uncharacteristic outburst. "Wilson…what…?"

"This is _not _his fault!" Wilson fairly exploded, his eyes welling with furious tears as he rose to his feet, slamming his fist down on Cuddy's desk as he glared at her defiantly across it.

Cuddy was quiet, but the troubled look in her eyes was growing, as she studied his face for a long time, before finally breaking the silence in a soft, sympathetic voice.

"That's…all you had to say," she pointed out. "I wasn't trying to say…I mean…if you say it wasn't his fault, then…then I believe you. It's just…Wilson, I have _no clue _what's going on here! The nurse just said she heard him screaming, yelling for you, from that room – and – Wilson, is he okay? What's happened?"

Wilson looked down at the desk, making no attempt to check the tears that fell from his eyes as he let out a shaky sigh. "I – I know. I'm sorry," he relented, aware that his accusations were really unfair to Cuddy. She had no way of knowing, after all.

A part of him wished that _he _didn't know.

"House was attacked tonight."

Cuddy gasped, her eyes widening in shock. When Wilson offered no other information immediately, she asked, "What do you mean, attacked? Did he get mugged? Did it happen here? How bad did they hurt him?"

"Bad." Wilson's answer was a bare whisper – and Cuddy's first subconscious clue that this was much worse than she had begun to imagine. "They…they stole his bike, and…and they…" Wilson swallowed hard, swallowing back the wave of nausea that rose up in his throat, as he gasped out the words in a breathless whisper, fighting back a sob.

"…they raped him, Cuddy. There were…were _four _of them, and they _raped _him."

When silence met his words, Wilson finally looked up at her, a question in his weighted, despairing gaze. Cuddy seemed to be staring just past him, a stricken expression on her face – just shaking her head slightly, not even breathing, as if her mind and body both simply refused to take in the words Wilson had just breathed out.

Wilson continued on, aware that he was babbling, and in so doing blurting out information that should have been shared much more delicately, but simply unable to allow the silence to continue. When it was quiet, he couldn't help but think about what had happened – and that was simply unbearable. Talking about it was, somehow, easier.

"He's…he's gonna need surgery, because…they did a lot of damage. They u-used a…a knife, and…and the b-bastards s-sodomized him with his…his own cane." He nearly broke down over those words, looking away when Cuddy visibly flinched, her mouth dropping open, her wide, expressive eyes mirrors of utter horror.

"But…but no one can know about this, no one else. He didn't even wanna tell _me_, and when I figured it out he said no one else could know, but that stupid nurse – Cuddy, you can't let anyone he knows work on this, it'd kill him. We've got to keep this secret, call in someone who doesn't know him, someone from some other hospital. He's so proud, so…so private…there's no way he'd be able to stand it if…if…"

At some point, Cuddy's shaking her head turned into a slow, stunned nod, as the rational, organized part of her mind took over, thinking through what would have to be done to protect House's privacy, and what was left of his shattered dignity. Her emotions were very similar to Wilson's but she forced herself to choke them back, thinking only of what she had to do to help her friend get through what had to be the worst ordeal in a series of terrible ordeals.

"I'll take care of it, Wilson," she assured him, reaching across her desk to place a warm, reassuring hand over Wilson's trembling fist, resting on the edge of her desk. "I'll take care of everything. I know a surgeon who can…can take care of him, and doesn't know him at all. And I can be sure that nurse keeps her mouth shut. No one else will find out about this unless House decides to tell them – and I am going to do everything I can to make sure that he gets the best possible care. I promise you."

Wilson studied the expression in her eyes, saw sorrow and pain to mirror his own, and nodded, relief flooding him as he realized that she would keep that promise, at all costs.

Cuddy's eyes were filled with tears, though her voice still held a remarkable amount of control, as she added after a moment's hesitation, "I…I'd like to see him. If…if you think that'd be all right…"

Wilson was quiet for a moment, before shaking his head and meeting her eyes regretfully. "Not…not right now," he whispered. "Maybe…maybe tomorrow."

Cuddy swallowed hard, clearly unhappy with his response. "It _is _tomorrow," she pointed out.

"I'll talk to him," Wilson offered softly. "He…he's really shaken up right now. He…doesn't really want to see anyone. You saw how he freaked out when he saw you were there…"

Cuddy nodded, looking away, and Wilson felt guilty for making her feel bad, even if it was only with the truth.

He forced a smile and a weak laugh as he added, "…I've still got the mess to clean up when I get back."

"And you'd…better get back," Cuddy concluded, once again reining in her own emotions to offer him an encouraging smile. "I assume he had a flashback, before, when the – when the nurse heard screaming?"

Wilson nodded.

"PTSD," Cuddy murmured, her mouth forming a grim, troubled line. "You really shouldn't leave him alone for long right now."

Wilson nodded again, as Cuddy came around the desk, and nearly broke down completely when she wrapped her arms around him in a completely unexpected hug. She held on tightly, and he allowed his head to fall to her shoulder, gratefully accepting the much-needed support – though, judging from the way her arms were trembling, he was not sure which of them needed the hug more.

After a few moments, he reluctantly pulled away, giving her a brave smile as he reiterated, "I'd…better go. Call me when you know…where we go from here. Okay?"

Cuddy nodded, not trusting herself to speak, as Wilson walked out of her office and closed the door. She glanced out through the glass at the dimly lit, deserted floor, then walked back around her desk on trembling legs, falling weakly into the chair, her head resting in her hands, her elbows on the desk.

"House," she murmured, her voice breaking over her friend's name. "God, why _House_?"

Then, in the lonely privacy of her office, without anyone there to support or reassure, Cuddy folded her arms on the desk, rested her face in the cradle they formed, and allowed the tears to come.


	8. Chapter 8

"So…your surgery's scheduled for 11:00

"So…your surgery's scheduled for 11:00. That's as soon as the Dr. Mangus can get here from Albany. And once that's done, if everything goes well, I'd estimate two or three days here, and you'll be ready to go home. No one will ever have to be the wiser."

Wilson quietly explained the situation to House, who was sitting up in bed, staring into the sun that streamed through the open blinds into the hospital room – one of few in the entire building that was considered a "private" room, and equipped with an actual solid door, as opposed to the glass with which most of the hospital was outfitted.

That was a tremendous blessing, because it meant that, once the sign had been posted on the door advising all staff to keep out without prior authorization, House could have total privacy. No one except Wilson and Cuddy and the nosy nurse even knew that he was there – and only Cuddy and Wilson knew why.

Cuddy had really outdone herself in making quiet, swift arrangements for House.

She had managed to acquire a reputable surgeon and staff from a hospital in New York, and arrange for an operating room and recovery area to be set aside for House's procedures, out of the way and secluded from routes usually taken by most of the hospital staff.

She still wanted to see him – to talk to him – but House wasn't ready.

"She…she's really worried, House," Wilson reminded him, a bit apologetically. "She just wants to see for herself that you're all right."

"She just wants to see for herself what I look like as a broken, pathetic wuss," House snapped back, glaring out the window, squinting slightly into the sun. "And I'd rather keep her guessing. More fun that way."

"You know that's not fair," Wilson gently chided him, a mildly disapproving look on his face. "She's doing all she can to help you, and you know it. All she wants is to see her _friend _and reassure herself that he's still alive and functioning."

House was silent, and Wilson frowned. No snarky comeback, no scathing insult designed to cover his vulnerability – just…silence.

"You know…you're gonna have to see her again sometime, House."

"Don't think so."

Wilson's frown deepened. "Um…you probably see her more on a daily basis than any other doctor in this hospital, House. So unless she's planning on resigning and I just haven't been informed yet…"

"She's not," House explained in a terse voice, still not looking at Wilson. "I am."

Wilson was struck silent, stunned by the unexpected words. He opened his mouth a couple of times to reply, only to shut it again both times, shaking his head slightly in dismay.

"House…" he finally managed to attempt. "…that's not a good idea. If you're going to get past this, you can't let those creeps keep you locked away somewhere in your…"

"It's not up for discussion, Wilson," House cut him off sharply, looking down at his own hand, picking absently at the hospital blanket that covered him. "I've already made my decision."

Wilson wisely said nothing, aware that now was not the time to try to argue his point. Besides – who was he to say what was best for House in this situation? Maybe it _would _be better for him to take some time away from the hospital, some time to deal with what had happened to him and come to some kind of a peace with it.

Or more likely, to bury the hurt in a lonely, drug-and-alcohol-induced haze, with no one around to help pull him out of it.

Alarmed, Wilson had to try again. "House…"

"What part of 'no discussion' do you not understand?" House asked, his light tone barely concealing the slight tremor in his voice. "The discussion part? I know it's a big word and all, Wilson, but I thought I was pretty clear."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest again, despite his better judgment, but House spoke again before he could do so, his words surprising enough to silence Wilson's latest attempt.

"Tell Cuddy I'll see her before the surgery."

Wilson blinked, trying to find words. "You…you will?"

"Yeah." House was staring out the window again, his expression inscrutable. After a moment, he glanced back in Wilson's direction, meeting his eyes for just the barest instant before looking self-consciously down at the blanket again. "Are you…are you gonna be in the room? Assisting? Or…"

Wilson swallowed slowly, studying his friend's face with concern. His voice was slow and cautious as he asked, "Do you want me to?"

House hesitated a moment before nodding, his eyes still downcast.

"Okay, then. I'll tell Cuddy I'll be assisting." Wilson considered for a moment, then suggested. "And…I'll have her plan to come see you when I go to prep for the surgery. Okay?"

House nodded again, accepting the obvious logic of that plan.

"And um…House…"

Wilson hesitated. He knew what needed to be said; it couldn't be put off any longer. He had racked his brain for a way to bring it up that House might accept, but was at a loss. So, there was nothing for it but to just jump in head first, and hope that he didn't drown.

"…we still need to talk about…well…we shouldn't wait much longer to…to call the authorities…"

"No."

"House…these guys can't just get away with this. And we have DNA evidence. We can get these guys, House, we just need to…"

"So it's the 'no' part you had difficulty with before, then," House surmised, glaring at his friend briefly. "Thought you were brighter than that, Wilson. Honestly, how did you ever graduate medical school if…?"

"House."

"No."

"House…"

"Under New Jersey law you can't force me to file any kind of report, and I'm not going to. I'm having surgery in three hours," House changed the subject instantly in a matter-of-fact voice, as if informing Wilson for the first time. "I need to get some rest."

As he spoke, he pressed the button on the side of his bed, waiting until it was in a fully reclined position before awkwardly turning over on his side, and more importantly, pointedly turning his back on Wilson.

Wilson stared at his back for a long moment, letting out a heavy sigh. House's refusal was really no less than he had expected. He had not thought for a moment that his friend would willingly go to the police about the humiliating ordeal he had endured. For all his private insecurities, House was a very proud man, used to handling – or _not _handling, as the case usually was – his problems on his own terms.

"We're gonna talk about this, House," Wilson informed his friend, no trace of yielding in his voice. "After you get out of surgery, we're gonna talk about this. You can't just let them get away with this and do the same thing to somebody else. You like to pretend that other people don't matter to you, but I know you – and I know that you can't let that happen."

House remained silent, his back turned to his best friend, closing his eyes to feign sleep, lest Wilson should come around the bed to check – but he was far from actually sleeping. Wilson's words echoed in his troubled mind, and a thousand unnamed emotions flooded through him, barely kept in check by his valiant attempts to hold back the trembling, the tears, that seemed always just below the surface since the moment his attacker had left him back in the parking garage.

However, guilt on behalf of any possible future victims of his rapists was not one of those emotions.

He tried to focus on the glowing red light of the sunshine, still bright enough to be visible even through his closed eyelids, tried to focus on it, instead of the vivid images that filled his mind – but even that very light brought back flashes of violent, degrading memories that were the last thing he wanted to think about.

It was impossible to think about anything else.

Maybe it was better to think about Wilson's gentle attempts at a guilt trip instead, after all. House almost laughed – almost – as he thought of the idea that these might be serial rapists, already headed off to find their next victim.

No – he knew better.

_They got what they wanted…no, they won't be going after anyone else…_

_All at once a soft, pinkish glow shone through the thin, coarse fabric of the pillowcase over his head, and the uneven terrain over which they had been traveling gave way to something smooth and even that felt like tile or linoleum under foot. The air felt warmer as well, and House knew that they were now inside._

_He bit back a cry of pain, not wanting to give his captor the satisfaction, as he was shoved roughly to his knees on the hard floor, his right leg throbbing as the already sore muscles impacted harshly with the solid surface. A strong hand fisted in the fabric behind his head, jerking it taut again, yanking his head back, and House fought off a sense of panic as his air was restricted again._

_A menacing voice asked softly, next to his ear, "Now, if I take this off your head, do you think you can be quiet?"_

"_Naw, man," one of the other men protested. "Don't let him see us."_

"_I don't really care if he sees us or not," the first man, the one in charge, declared in a quiet, controlled tone, and House could almost hear the smirk in his voice. "I don't think he's gonna be ID'ing anybody when we're done with him…"_

_House's throat went dry with fear at the implications of those words, and he shook his head rapidly, his voice quiet and earnest with just the slightest trace of a catch in it as he replied, "No thanks, I...really think I'd rather not see…"_

_He knew enough to know that once he had seen the faces of his attackers, he was that much less likely to be allowed to live through the encounter. Of course, he knew one of them already, but the hood over his face was an indication that perhaps that particular man, the ringleader of the group, did not realize that House had recognized him._

_Or perhaps he did, and the hood was simply for purposes of intimidation._

_And, knowing this man – yeah, that was a pretty likely idea._

_His suspicions were confirmed when that soft, familiar voice murmured next to his ear, "Oh, let's not play games, Dr. House. You've already seen my face, haven't you?" He raised his voice, addressing his co-conspirators as he added, "He won't be calling the cops on us, guys. Trust me on that one. He knows better than to waste his time – and my patience – with a stupid move like that. Don't you, Doctor?"_

_He released his grip on the pillowcase, then snatched it roughly off House's head, dropping it to the floor beside him, as he helpless captive winced at the sudden brightness, blinking rapidly until his eyes adjusted enough to open – but then keeping them closed, anyway, still unwilling to give his captors that one extra reason to kill him when they were finished with – whatever it was they intended to do._

"_Open your eyes." _

_The order was spoken in a cold, warning voice, as a rough hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head back painfully. House just shook his head, his jaw stubbornly set in refusal._

"_Open your eyes, House," the leader repeated, a note of anger in his voice now, as he shook the doctor slightly._

_His other hand came to rest with unsettling gentleness, low on his prisoner's hip, suggestively sliding the top of his jeans downward an inch or two – and House froze, sick with stunned, horrified understanding. He opened his eyes, wide with shock, staring up at the smug, familiar smile that was staring back at him in satisfaction at his trapped, terrified reaction._

_Michael Tritter's cold smile twisted into a cruel smirk of triumph as he leaned in close and explained softly, "I wanna see the look on your face…when I take that smart ass of yours." His voice lowered further, a sadistic whisper that House felt against his ear, as much as heart._

"_Payback's a bitch, ain't it, House? And tonight…it's _my _bitch…"_

_Tritter rose to his feet then, a massive, imposing figure over the kneeling, shaken man at his feet, suddenly shocked and terrified at the prospect of what was about to be done to him. The cop let out a crude snort of laughter as he corrected his words with a mocking sneer._

"_No, wait…that'd be you…"_


	9. Chapter 9

Wilson had only been gone for a few minutes – and already House felt like he was falling apart

Wilson had only been gone for a few minutes – and already House felt like he was falling apart.

Sitting up again, he stared out the window into the sunlight, finally alone in the privacy of his hospital room, if only for a few moments. There were a lot of things he knew he should be thinking about – decisions that needed to be made, arrangements he had to consider. He had to let Cuddy know that he was resigning, effective immediately, and he had to convince her to accept his resignation – and he had to do it in a single conversation to take place in a few brief minutes.

And all he could think about was convincing himself over and over again that he would be safe alone in this room for those few brief minutes.

_He wouldn't dare…not in broad daylight, not when anyone could walk in at any moment…he probably doesn't even know I'm here…_

The door to his room swung open with an audible creak, and House's stomach lurched as his eyes darted toward it, his mouth suddenly dry with an unreasonable – but equally uncontrollable – terror.

It was Cuddy.

_Of course_ it was Cuddy.

_Pathetic. Just pathetic._

House recovered as quickly as possible, nodding briefly in greeting to Cuddy before turning his face away again, before she could read the fears he knew were in his all-too-expressive eyes. His hands were trembling where they lay against the mattress, and House clenched them into fists, adjusting the blanket over him in an attempt to hide the slight tremor that shook them.

"Hey."

Cuddy's voice was softer, gentler, than House was used to hearing it, with a compassion and concern that were more often directed toward the patients with whom she came in contact than toward him.

He hated it.

"Hey," he whispered in response, still not looking at her. He raised his voice slightly with a bitter smirk as he added, "Come to check out the side show?"

He glanced uncomfortably up at her as she moved around the bed to stand between him and the sunlight that had held most of his focus all morning, afraid to see her reaction to his harsh words, which he was certain had revealed too much of his shame and vulnerability. He did a double take, frowning when he saw the soft smile of gentle amusement on her lips, instead of the expression of pity he had expected.

"Well…whatever you happen to be doing at any given moment _is _usually the most interesting thing going on in this hospital," Cuddy pointed out as she slowly sat down in the chair beside his bed. "In fact it's usually a little _too _interesting."

House looked up at her sharply, searching her eyes for any trace of mockery or false cheer – anything that would have allowed him to dismiss her. There was nothing but tenderness in her smile, and he had to admit that her attempt at lightening the mood was well executed indeed. He was the master of one-liners, and he couldn't have done any better himself, given the grim circumstances which did not lend themselves readily to humor.

Reluctantly he returned her smile, though it didn't quite touch his eyes.

Silence fell between them for a few moments, as Cuddy tried to think of something to say that would not sound utterly ridiculous.

"_How are you feeling?" _

"_Are you all right?" _

"_Is there anything I can do?"_

The problem with all the standard questions was that they either had no answers, or the answers were so obvious that she already knew them. The kind of banal platitudes that might have worked with anyone else seemed almost obscene to use with House, who would surely see through them in an instant.

So Cuddy said nothing, just sat there by his side, offering her silent support, until she could no longer hold back the words that echoed over and over in her mind – simple and probably useless, but utterly heartfelt. She reached out, following instincts that contradicted with all of her experience with this man, and wrapped her soft, small hand gently around his pale, shaking fist, as she whispered the only comfort she could offer.

"House…I am _so…so_ sorry."

House still did not look at her, but he swallowed, the convulsive motion visible in his throat, and she could see the stark pain in his eyes, glittering brightly in the late morning sun. When he finally spoke, his voice hoarse and quiet, it was not to acknowledge her words.

"I'm resigning."

She blinked, stunned by the blunt confession, the last thing she had expected him to say. Wilson had warned her that House had mentioned resigning, so she knew that he was considering it; but she had not expected him to bring it up so quickly.

Everything in her rebelled against the idea, not understanding why this would be his immediate response to the attack, or why he would not see that it was a very bad idea as far as his recovery was concerned. However, she could not bring herself to correct him, to argue or insist that he remain at his job – the same job from which he had been forcibly dragged away and viciously assaulted.

She _wanted _to argue, but knew that even if a time for argument would come – it was not now.

"If…that's what you think you should do," she finally replied, her tone carefully calm and even, her thumb stroking slowly back and forth across the back of his trembling fist, "then I support you, House. Whatever you need to do."

House looked at her again, clearly surprised at her ready acceptance. The ghost of a smirk traced the edges of his mouth, a flash of resentment in his eyes as he guessed, "Suppose this makes things easy for you, doesn't it? No more lawsuits every other month, no more patient complaints to deal with…"

"No more last minute saves of patients who would otherwise die," Cuddy interrupted, no trace of anger in her voice as she met his eyes directly, facing his assumptions and boldly backing them down, but just enough sharpness in her tone to emphasize the ludicrous nature of his accusation. "If I wanted you gone, you would be already."

She paused, allowing that to sink in, before adding in a soft, even voice, touched with just a slight note of trembling emotion, "I want you here, House. I _need_ you here. But…if that's not what _you _need…" She shook her head, willingly accepting defeat. "…then I'll accept that and support you every step of the way."

She hesitated, glancing away before meeting his eyes again and adding, "And, if…a few months, or years, down the road…it _is _what you need again…well, I'll be here for you then, too."

House's eyes widened, clearly stunned by the open, ready devotion in her words and her eyes, before his expression softened, touched by the gesture. He looked away, unaccustomed to dealing with such warmth and kindness, turning his head away; but even as he did, his fist relaxed under her hand, his hand slowly, painfully unclenching and turning under hers to return her gentle grip.

He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly, before responding simply, "Thank you."

Not trusting herself to speak for the tears that choked her, Cuddy just nodded, gently squeezing his hand. They stayed there like that, in surprisingly easy silence, for the next few minutes, House just accepting her wordless comfort, until Wilson returned with the medical team from New York to take him to the operating room.

Aware that the private moment they had shared was swiftly drawing to an end, Cuddy could no longer hold back the emotions that were overwhelming her – at least, not completely. Steeling herself for what seemed to be inevitable rejection, she rose from her seat and leaned over the bed to gently hug House's shoulders, which seemed so much more slight and narrow than usual.

He tensed slightly at the unexpected touch, but did not pull away, and after a moment, relaxed, accepting her embrace without responding to it. Despite his height and ever-present strength, he seemed so small and fragile in the light of how viciously he had been broken.

It made her furious, angry enough to kill.

Still, there was only tenderness in her voice as she whispered next to his ear, "You know I love you, right? You're like family to me, House…and I'm gonna do everything I can to help you through this."

She had hoped for a nod, a word, some acknowledgment that he knew her words to be true; but she had known better than to expect it, and was therefore not greatly disappointed when House did not speak, did not even look at her as Wilson carefully repositioned the bed to a fully reclined position, then laid a folded sheet across the railing at the head of the bed, a makeshift shield to conceal his friend's identity from any curious eyes they might pass on the way to the OR.

And then, he was gone, leaving Cuddy alone in the room with her own swirling emotions, which were swiftly combining into a single overwhelming wave of heartbroken, protective rage.

_We're going to find them, House._

Cuddy made a silent vow, even as her heart filled with frustration with the memory of what Wilson had told her, about House's refusal to call the police. She could not understand why he would not want to make sure that the men were captured, off the street, not free to hurt him – or someone else – again.

It did not matter.

_One way or another, we're going to find the monsters who did this to you…and they're going to pay._

House slept through most of the three days following his surgery. He was heavily medicated to ease the pain of his injuries, and the measures that had been taken to repair them. Thankfully, there was no internal bleeding, though there had been extensive tearing, and even some damage to House's lower intestine, no doubt from the vicious assault with his cane.

Wilson thought it a miracle that no bones had been broken, considering the brutal beating House had obviously taken, but it seemed that, though painful to experience and alarming to look at, those injuries were mostly on the surface. Even the knife wound to his abdomen had managed to miss any vital organs. Wilson's estimate had been pretty close to accurate; three days after the surgery was performed, House was ready to be released from the hospital.

Physically, anyway.

The other injuries, the ones the surgeons couldn't see – Wilson knew that those would take much longer to heal.

House's team had been informed only that he was taking a few weeks sick leave. Both Wilson and Cuddy still hoped to be able to convince House to keep his job, despite his firm insistence that he was done at PPTH. There was no opportunity to talk to him about it during the first two days, as he was mostly asleep, or too hazy from the drugs to be coherent; but Cuddy kept his job open for him, just the same – just in case.

By the third day, House was more lucid, but neither Wilson nor Cuddy wanted to push him to talk about the issues he seemed so determined to avoid. Wilson just hoped that the opportunity would present itself for them to discuss it again, and that he might be able to convince his friend not to give up the only thing left in his life that meant anything to him.

House was very quiet, barely speaking at all, that third day – and Wilson guessed that it had something to do with the fact that he was going home that evening. He didn't press for conversation, just sat at his friend's side, offering a sense of security and support that went beyond whatever useless words he might have offered.

Ten minutes before it was time to go, House announced to Wilson and Cuddy, the only two people who had been in his room at all over the past few days, "I'm walking out of here. No chair. That's all I'd need, to get the gossip mills going over me being wheeled out of here like an invalid."

Wilson nodded once without a word, his jaw working with nervous emotion as he crossed the room to table where House's bag waited, packed and ready. Immediately following the surgery, he had made a trip to House's apartment to pick up a few things he thought his friend might want or need.

Then, he had stopped by his own apartment and packed some of his own things, having no intention of returning home any time soon. He would be remaining at the hospital until House was released, and then likely staying with him in his apartment for a while as well.

He had also made a trip to a local pawn shop, in search of one very specific item which needed immediate replacement.

Now, he reached behind the bag and picked up the cane he had purchased, dark cherry wood, beautifully glossy, and in almost perfect condition. He shrugged dismissively at House's wide-eyed look of surprise as he leaned the cane against the bed, leaving the handle a couple of inches from House's hand.

House swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, and Wilson was almost certain that he was struggling to hold back an emotional reaction to the unexpected gift. All at once, House looked up at him, a question in his eyes.

"Where…what did you do with…?"

"It's…with the other…evidence," Wilson struggled to get the words out, unable to hold House's gaze. The admission felt like a betrayal, in light of House's desire to keep the whole thing a secret.

But House did not react as such, just nodding slightly as he picked up the new cane, looking it over closely with the hint of a pleased smile on his lips – the first Wilson had seen since he had shown up in his office that awful night.

For a moment, Wilson thought he might cry with relief.

When the time came to go, Cuddy made sure that the route leading to the back exit, where Wilson's car was parked, was clear of any possible prying eyes. Only when she indicated that all was clear, Wilson helped House to stand from the bed, hovering at his side as he made his way slowly, painfully out of the room and down the hall with the aid of his new cane.

Cuddy walked with them to the car, carrying House's bag and medications, and helped him get settled in the passenger seat while Wilson tossed House's small duffel bag and his own briefcase and suitcase into the trunk of his car and walked around to the driver's side.

"I'll stop by tomorrow to see you, okay?" Cuddy offered with a warm, reassuring smile.

House simply nodded, looking her in the eyes with open gratitude as he repeated earnestly, "Thank you."

Cuddy reached through the window to touch his shoulder, pressing gently before pulling back and allowing him to close the window.

The entire drive to House's apartment was quiet, neither man really knowing what to say. Given the circumstances, there was little they could have said that would have held any real meaning. However, since both of them instinctively understood the futility of conversation in their situation, the silence was not particularly uncomfortable. In fact, it was no less than both of them had expected.

Finally, Wilson parked his car outside House's apartment, silently getting out and going around to help House out of the right side. He was much better, but still in a lot of pain; while walking was easily manageable now, getting up and down was a bit more difficult.

Once his friend was standing on the sidewalk, Wilson headed for the trunk to get their bags. He was stopped by the sharp intake of breath he heard behind him, turning immediately toward House with concern, expecting him to be in some kind of pain, needing some kind of physical assistance.

House was staring past Wilson, his eyes wide and stricken, his face pale and drawn with shock. His hand resting on the top of his cane was shaking violently, and Wilson rushed to his side in alarm, slipping an arm around House's waist an instant before his knees nearly gave out beneath him. Without Wilson's support, House would have collapsed to the sidewalk; as it was, he was nearly doubled over, his breathing shallow and panicked as he stared at that same spot behind Wilson's car.

"House…what…?" Wilson whispered, bewildered, as he followed his friend's gaze.

His stomach lurched at the sight of House's motorcycle, in the same condition as the last night he had ridden it – parked in House's ordinary parking spot. Wilson's mouth felt dry with fear, and he swallowed to dampen it, his stomach churning with apprehension.

"What…why would they…?" He couldn't quite finish the question, shaking his head in confusion, glancing around them in spite of himself, half-expecting House's assailants to come at them out of the darkness.

"It's a reminder," House whispered, breathless and shaky, his entire body trembling violently against Wilson's supportive arm.

Wilson frowned. "What do you mean? A reminder of what, House?"

The answer chilled Wilson's blood, and his heart dropped at the realization that came with House's hoarse, whispered words.

"A reminder that…that he knows where I live."


	10. Chapter 10

God, no…he's watching me, he knows where I live, could be inside right now for all I know…gotta get away, gotta run but I can't freakin' run and he's gonna make sure I keep my mouth shut one way or another…this can't be happening, no, he can't be here, c

_God, no…he's watching me, he knows where I live, could be inside right now, for all I know…gotta get away, gotta run…but I _can't _freakin' run…and he's gonna make sure I keep my mouth shut one way or another…_

Even through his racing, barely coherent thoughts, House was clinically aware that he was headed into a full-blown panic attack. He was sweating, gasping for breath, his heart thumping rapidly against his ribcage at a dangerous rate, barely able to stand on his own. His legs began to give out, and he would have fallen if not for Wilson's strong, supportive arm behind him, around his waist, holding him up.

_God…Wilson…_

Wilson held his cane with one hand, which meant… what? At some point, House realized, he must have dropped it – probably when Wilson had caught him and kept him from slamming his face into the pavement. The younger man was looking up at him, his dark eyes full of concern.

Suddenly, House was also acutely aware of how utterly pathetic he had to look right then.

He tried to block out the dark, swirling circle of his fearful thoughts, focusing on slowing his breathing as he leaned one arm on the top of Wilson's car, attempting to take some of his weight back onto himself, away from Wilson.

"I'm okay," he gasped, though his legs were still shaking. "I'm okay."

"Yeah," Wilson muttered, his voice calm and even. Though he never would have admitted it, House was grateful for the control his friend managed to maintain, when he himself could not. "You seem _perfectly _okay."

The sarcasm in his voice was gentle, muted by the tender concern in his eyes. Carefully maneuvering House back to the passenger side of the car, Wilson opened the door, patiently helping him to sit down, his legs still hanging out the side of the car, his feet resting on the sidewalk.

Wilson crouched down in front of House, glancing up into his eyes as he reached past him to place the cane between the bucket seats, then drew back to face his friend again. Wilson's hands were resting on House's knees as he just stayed there for a moment, waiting for House to regain the control for which he was so well known.

"Breathe," he instructed quietly. A slight tremor in his voice was the only thing that gave him away, made him seem like any more than the caring, competent, professional doctor he projected. Except for that, he might have been dealing with any other patient. "Just breathe…"

"I'm _not _one of your patients, and I _am _breathing, moron," House snapped, still sounding dangerously breathless. "Hence the talking, and the consciousness, and the…calling you a moron…" The last word was choked by a wheezing cough, as House underestimated the amount of oxygen he would need for his mini rant.

Wilson just raised a single brow, passing on the tremendous amount of room for mockery his friend had just afforded him, and settling for a simple, "Uh huh. Less talking. More breathing."

House glared at him, but did not try to talk again until his breathing had returned to something resembling normal. Wilson patiently waited out the attack, murmuring calm, reassuring words the entire time – gentle, compassionate words that House would undoubtedly deride him for later…although he was secretly grateful for them now.

"That's it…you're doing fine…you're all right…"

Finally, House regained control, and looked up at Wilson through hooded eyes, dark and troubled.

"We've gotta get out…"

"…out of here, I know." Wilson finished for him. His voice was tense as he placed one arm under House's knees and lifted his legs into the car, turning him to face the windshield. "You're staying at my place tonight."

House's stomach lurched again as he thought of Tritter, and remembered that he knew all about Wilson, too – where he lived, worked, what kind of car he drove. If the power-hungry cop really wanted to get at him, he would find a way. The change in plans wouldn't deter him.

Wilson's house was no safer than his own.

"Maybe we should go somewhere else," he suggested, hating the quiver in his voice. He stared out the window at his apartment as Wilson got into the driver's seat. "In case…they're still around. In case they follow us."

Wilson gave him a sharp look – House could tell by the silence, the stillness he sensed from the other side of the car, although he carefully avoided meeting his friend's eyes. Finally, Wilson spoke in a soft voice, each word measured and cautious.

"And…they _couldn't_ follow us if we…went somewhere else…"

House winced inwardly at his mistake, still staring out the window, not sure where to go from there. His weak excuse for going somewhere other than Wilson's house showed faulty reasoning, and that was something that, coming from him, would tip Wilson off more quickly than anything else.

_You are _really _off your game…get it together…_

"That's true enough, I guess," he muttered. "So…I guess I might just as well stay here…"

Wilson responded to that half-hearted suggestion by slamming the driver's side door and turning the key in the ignition. Frowning, House glanced toward his friend as he put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Figured we'd just drive for a while." Wilson's tone of voice was _too _calm – perfectly neutral.

House knew that tone well, and hated it. It usually meant that he had been caught.

He cleared his throat, immediately regretting the tell-tale sign of nervousness he had just revealed to his friend, as he asked in a quiet, restrained voice, "So…how long are you planning on…driving to nowhere?"

"As long as it takes."

Already knowing that he was going to be sorry he asked, House closed his eyes a moment before asking, resigned, "For what?"

"For you to tell me whatever it is you're not telling me."

House remained silent for a long, tense moment. Finally he observed, "You're gonna be driving for a long time. Probably run out of gas. See, I was gang-raped three days ago, and believe it or not, I'm not feeling overly talkative about the way they held me down and put their filthy dicks in my…"

"You said 'they'."

House stopped, turning incredulous eyes on his friend, who had so calmly interrupted his rather intense rant, with such apparently meaningless words.

"Yeah," he drawled, overly patient, as if speaking to a small, not particularly bright child. "They. Because there were _four _of them…"

"You said 'he' before."

"_It's a reminder…that…that he knows where I live…"_

House's stomach dropped as the words he had spoken echoed through his mind. He swallowed hard, then tried to cover the slip as best he could with the most well-used weapon in his arsenal – sarcasm. "Yes. Yes, I did. Because see, the thing about 'filthy dicks'? Women don't have them. So the use of 'he' is more appropriate."

"_Four _'he's'."

House stared straight ahead, refusing to look at his friend for fear of giving away too much with his eyes. Struggling to control his voice, he said simply, "Yes."

"Which technically constitutes a 'they'."

Wilson paused, and when House saw that he was pulling the car over to the side of the road, he cringed, closing his eyes momentarily as he steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation he had been trying so hard to avoid. He felt his breath quicken with the stirrings of panic as Wilson turned off the engine, turning on the interior light as he swiveled in his seat to get a better look at his friend.

"Who's _he, _House?"

"Good. Now say it five times fast."

"House."

"It doesn't matter who _he_ is," House replied finally, throwing up a hand in exasperation, nervous under Wilson's almost palpable scrutiny. His heart was racing as he searched his mind for some way to divert his friend's attention from his chosen topic. "_He _is any one of the four "he's" who…who raped me, okay? It was a meaningless slip of the tongue! I _do _have those on occasion…"

"You do have slips of the tongue," Wilson conceded with a single slow nod, his eyes locked on House's face with unyielding focus. "They're never meaningless."

"Thank you, Dr. Freud."

"House…"

Wilson drew in a deep breath, hesitating over a difficult question – and House _knew _that his friend had figured it out, at least partially, knew with a sense of panic that Wilson was edging ever nearer to the truth.

_But he can't find out…he can't, because if he does…if I let him find out…_

"…did you _know_ any of the men who raped you?"

…_then he's dead._

"I told you, I don't know," House muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes averted. "They kept something over my head. I never saw their faces. Now, for God's sake, Wilson, just start the car. Take me home, take me anywhere, just…"

"…just stop talking about this?" Wilson guessed, a single brow raised as he studied House's reaction – and made no move to start the car. "Because for some reason…this is a really big deal to you."

House turned incredulous, accusing eyes on his best friend and knew by the wide-eyed look on Wilson's face that he had instantly realized how poorly chosen his words were, and the flippancy with which he had spoken about the most traumatic and damaging experience House had ever been through.

_Finally…something I can use…_

"A big deal?" House echoed in anger and disgust, allowing the slight tremor in his mouth that he had been restraining thus far to show for a moment, for maximum emotional impact. "Damn right, it's a big deal!" He looked away then, deliberately, obviously hurt. "God, Wilson, how can you even _say_ a thing like that?"

Flustered, Wilson rushed to clarify. "Talking about _who they are_. The _identity_ of your attackers. That's what's under discussion here, House. Not what happened to you. I know _that's_ a really big deal. It's just that…telling me _who_ did it shouldn't be as big a thing…"

"Has anyone ever told you that sometimes you can be a bigger ass than I am?"

Wilson's face crumpled slightly, his voice filled with regret. "House…"

"Just start the damn car, Wilson."

House was facing forward again, pointedly ignoring his friend, although he could feel Wilson's eyes still on him, knew the younger man was racking his mind for anything to say to undo his accidental blunder – and that was good. Guilt was a very effective motivator for Wilson; as long as he was worried about his own insensitive words, he was less likely to keep after House for answers.

Wilson sighed deeply, and House stifled his own sigh of relief as his friend turned slowly around in his seat, reaching for the key in the ignition.

Just short of turning it, however – Wilson stopped.

"No," he stated in a decisive tone, staring down at the steering wheel in front of him.

Confused, House frowned at him, a single brow raised. "No?" he echoed.

Wilson turned to him with a sad, sympathetic smile, shaking his head as he met his eyes. "No," he repeated simply. "House…I messed up, okay? I said a stupid thing. That's…something people do in horrible situations that they have no freaking idea how to deal with." He let out a slow, shaky breath as he ran a hand through his disheveled dark hair. "And…I know _you've_ said _your _share of stupid things to traumatized people…"

"I'm not traumatized…"

"Shut up and let me say this."

House blinked, looking up at Wilson in surprise. Wilson didn't usually speak harshly to him, and he certainly hadn't expected it in the light of recent events. Throughout the whole ordeal so far, Wilson had never once raised his voice to House – most likely because he _did _see him as "traumatized" – and House had been almost certain that he could use that to his advantage, to get Wilson to let his questions go.

Apparently, he was wrong.

"Yeah, I messed up," Wilson continued, his voice quiet, tired. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was stupid." He paused, lending weight to his words when he finally went on, "And it doesn't change the fact that you're hiding something from me, something that could be very important. And I'm _not_ going to let this go. House – who did this to you?"

"It's _not_ important," House nearly whispered the words, looking away uncomfortably. "It doesn't matter if I saw them, if I could pick them out of a lineup, if they were my bestest childhood friends. It _doesn't matter_. Because no matter what happens, I'm _not_ going to the police about this. I just want to forget it. Okay? Is that all right with you, _Mom_? Because I'd kind of like to just go home and go to sleep and forget that I exist for a little while!"

House was staring out the window again – so he missed the odd, speculative look that crossed Wilson's face with this latest in a long line of emphatic refusals to report what had happened to him to the authorities. Wilson's eyes widened with the dawning of understanding – but before House could look at him again and see it, the younger man turned away from him, facing the front of the car again.

"Well, last time I checked," Wilson replied with a shrug, ignoring the last part of House's statement, "I was the one behind the wheel, here. So I think we _are _going to the police. Now."

House's stomach lurched, and his mouth went dry with terror as Wilson reached for the key again, this time turning it and putting the car in drive. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse as he tried again, louder, "Wilson, _no_! I am _not _going to talk to the police about this! Take me home!"

Wilson ignored him, glancing in his rearview mirror as he pulled back onto the road.

"No! Damn it, Wilson, take me home!" House repeated, anger joining with fear in his trembling voice. Grasping desperately for a tactic that might work, he snarled out bitterly, "No means no, remember? Unless _you've_ forgotten that, too. _My_ no means _yes_, apparently, doesn't it?"

"_He_ could be following us, _remember_?" Wilson pointed out, again in that neutral voice that House equated with danger, utterly unaffected by House's last-ditch attempt at emotional blackmail – and House knew that he was moments away from having his secret found out, if it was not found out already. "And I've always heard, the safest place to go if you think you're being followed is the police station…"

"Wilson, _no_!" House snapped, his voice shaking dangerously now as he tried to reach for the wheel. "_Stop_! I said _no_, I _don't_ want to go to the police! Stop the damn car!"

Wilson pushed House's arm away from the wheel without turning, apparently having expected the attempt – and then, calmly holding his friend's violently shaking arm safely away from the wheel, pulled the car over to the curb again. House jerked away from him in anger, turning away. Deep tremors shook his body, his breath short and shallow, and he knew that he was on the verge of his second panic attack in less than thirty minutes.

Wilson turned toward him, warm, gentle hands steadying on House's trembling forearms as he patiently, intently sought his averted gaze. House tried to pull away at first, feeling vulnerable and trapped, and angry in his vulnerability, but Wilson's grip was firm, silently insisting that House face him. The younger doctor just waited until finally, reluctantly, House looked up at him through wide, almost panicked eyes, startlingly, intensely blue no matter how many times Wilson had already seen them.

And in this moment, they were shining with unshed tears.

Finishing his former thought as if he had not been interrupted, Wilson concluded in a soft, cautious voice, "…unless…it's the police you think are after you."

House froze, staring up at Wilson, a trapped, stricken expression on his face, shaking his head slightly in a useless denial.

Wilson's eyes blazed with a flash of fury when he saw the confirmation of his suspicions in House's tear-filled eyes.

"It was Tritter, wasn't it? He did this to you."


	11. Chapter 11

House knelt on the floor in shocked, horrified silence for what felt like forever – until Tritter reached down and dragged him to his feet by his arm, turning him and pushing him face first against the wall

_House knelt on the floor in shocked, horrified silence for what felt like forever – until Tritter reached down and dragged him to his feet by his arm, turning him and pushing him face-first against the wall. His arms shackled tightly behind his back, he was helpless to defend himself as Tritter pressed in close behind him and slid an invasive, sickeningly intimate hand downward to rest at House's narrow hip, his thumb stroking suggestively over his denim-clad ass._

_House was too stunned to move, let alone struggle._

_The larger man's voice was soft, almost seductive, as he leaned in close to his ear and whispered, "Tonight…you're mine…" He paused a moment, pulling back slightly to instruct in a cool, slightly louder voice, "Now, you don't wanna fight this, House. I'm gonna uncuff your hands for just a minute – but you don't stand a chance against the four of us. You wanna just relax and do exactly what I tell you, and _maybe_ you'll get out of this alive…"_

_He had no idea why Tritter would want to unfasten the restraints that bound him, but when House felt Tritter's hands moving over the cuffs, apparently preparing to unlock them – he saw his chance. It wasn't exactly a _good_ chance, but it was likely the only one he was going to get – and he simply could not fathom the idea of just sitting back and letting himself be violated._

_As soon as he felt the cuff fall away from his right hand, he jerked his left hand free, turning around against the wall as he swung the metal cuff hanging from his wrist, catching Tritter across the face with its sharp, open edge. _

_The cop fell back a step with a grunt of pain, his right hand flying to cover the bleeding spot on his cheek. As the others came at him, House kept swinging the only weapon he had at his disposal, doing his best to keep them away from him for as long as possible. _

_But it was only a matter of time._

_Even with Tritter distracted by his injury, three against one were terrible odds for the disabled doctor. Within less than a minute, they had House's arms pinned across his chest, a strong arm across his shoulders holding him back against one of his attackers._

"_No!" he growled out, frustrated and desperate, still struggling toward an impossible escape. "Get your hands off me!"_

_Tritter held his hand up in front of his face, a slow, humorless smile forming on his lips as he stared at the blood on his fingertips from the cut on his face. He looked up, meeting House's eyes as he started toward him with slow, measured steps – and the malicious anticipation in his eyes was enough to make House freeze in apprehension of whatever retaliation Tritter might intend._

"_Nice try," the cop conceded, eyebrows raised in an expression of amused surprise. _

_Without any further warning, he brought his fist down across House's face in an almost casual backhand blow that was no less breathtaking for the ease with which it was delivered. The men holding House released him, allowing him to fall back to the floor with the force of the blow, and Tritter crouched beside him as he went down, a meaty hand at House's throat shoving him back against the wall with a painful impact to the back of his skull._

_House gasped in pain, though it was nearly impossible to draw breath, as Tritter's free hand closed around his right leg, squeezing slowly, viciously, gradually increasing the pressure, dark eyes glittering with cruel pleasure as he searched House's wide-eyed, panicked gaze for the pain he sought to cause – and found it. _

_The searing agony in his thigh and his desperation for oxygen warred with each other, and House's hands, though free, seemed to have no idea which threat to fight first. They ended up held out in front of him in a gesture of pleading and surrender, indicating without words that he was done fighting – at least for the moment._

"_That was very…very…stupid," Tritter informed him softly, leaning in close again, a smirk on his lips. Not easing the pressure on either House's leg or his throat, he lowered his voice to a whisper, his breath hot on House's face as he declared, "Now, I'm going to take your clothes off…and you're going to let me. Because the next time you try something like that, House…I'm not going to be so patient. Is that clear?"_

_House nodded – defeated by his own survival instincts._

"_Good boy." Tritter patted his cheek roughly a couple of times in a condescending gesture. "See? We're gonna get along fine."_

_Then, despite House's submission, Tritter grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the wall with brutal force, causing his vision to darken for a few seconds, and leaving it hazy when it returned, his ears ringing loudly. When the effects of the blinding blow began to fade, House's shirt had already been removed, and his hands cuffed again, this time in front of him._

_Tritter and one of his cronies dragged House across the room to a place where a length of sturdy piping was suspended, a few inches from the ceiling. This time, when his hands were briefly uncuffed, House did not fight, allowing them to maneuver his arms over his head and refasten the cuffs over the piping._

_He closed his eyes, trying to shut it out, to pretend he was anywhere else, as Tritter unfastened his jeans and began to ease both jeans and underwear down over his hips, moving with deliberate, humiliating patience as he casually exposed House's most vulnerable parts to the scrutiny of the sneering men surrounding him. _

"_Look at me."_

_House grimaced, his eyes still shut, sickened at the thought of facing his own shame._

_A hard hand fisted in his hair, twisting painfully and jerking his head back before releasing its grip, and Tritter was oppressively close again as he insisted, "Look at me, House. I wanna see your face for this."_

_House still refused, lowering his head against his chest, his arms already taut and trembling with the strain of supporting his weight. Suddenly, a searing pain in his groin drew a strangled moan of anguish from his lips, as Tritter grabbed him and twisted viciously, repeating his command with quiet, exaggerated patience._

"_Open. Your. Eyes."_

_House finally obeyed, eyes wide and filled with stark agony as he reluctantly met Tritter's gaze. The cop smiled, nodding, pleased with his success._

"_Keep still," he advised as one of his helpers pulled House's jeans the rest of the way off. "You can't get away. No sense making me any angrier, is there?" When House looked away, humiliated, Tritter's hand tightened, and he snapped, "Up here, House. That's it…keep looking at me…"_

_As he spoke, he held out his hand behind his chained, helpless captive, gesturing for one of his men to come closer and place the object they held in his hand. He finally released his grip on House's groin – but House froze as he felt the familiar wooden surface of his cane, sliding suggestively along the line between his bare, vulnerable buttocks. Tritter's smile widened at his horrified reaction, and he pressed a bit harder, clearly enjoying the rising panic the action caused in his victim._

_After a moment, however, he relented, bringing the cane around in front of him and holding it in both hands, eyeing it speculatively before looking up to meet House's eyes again. The once-arrogant doctor shook his head slightly in a silent plea._

"_Relax," Tritter scoffed quietly, tapping the end of the cane into his palm a couple of times before removing the rubber stopper at the end and dropping it carelessly to the floor. He looked up at House again with a mocking grin as he reassured him, "We're not ready for that yet. There's something else I'd like to do with this first."_

_His pace slow and leisurely, Tritter moved around to stand behind House, positioning himself so that no matter how hard the doctor tried, he could not quite see him. This only served to increase the cold, creeping feeling of vulnerability that was slowly overwhelming the terrified captive._

"_See," Tritter explained, with the calm, instructive tone of a teacher dealing with a rebellious child, "you've gotta learn that you can't just get away with anything you happen to feel like doing, House. Your actions…have consequences."_

_His head was pulled back again, with Tritter so near that House could feel his dry, chapped lips against his ear. He spoke in a hushed, chilling voice that sent a tremor of fear through House's stomach._

"_After tonight, you'll always remember that, House. And you'll always remember _me_…and what you did to me. But most of all…" Tritter's lips twisted into a vicious smirk. "…you'll remember what _I_ did to _you_…"_

_Tritter released him again, and House felt his body swing forward, his wrists burning with the weight of almost his entire body, as his feet were barely able to touch the floor. But within an instant, the burn in his wrists became the least of his problems, as the cane was brought down in a breathtakingly hard, bruising blow across the small of his back._

_Blow after vicious blow fell across his back, his ass, the backs of his legs. Tritter paid special attention to the right thigh, eliciting muffled cries of pain from his prisoner, despite House's best efforts to keep that satisfaction from him. When he had finished with the back side of House's body, and House had lost count of the number of blows that had fallen, Tritter moved around to face House again. _

_House's heart sank. _

_The sadistic cop was only half finished._

_Several times House nearly passed out from the pain, as Tritter cruelly focused on the lower half of his body, his groin and leg taking equal parts of the torment. Each time House thought that unconsciousness would relieve him, Tritter would wait long enough to allow him to recover, and ensure that he would still feel the next blow that fell._

_By the time he was finally finished, House legs had given out. His wrists were now holding the full weight of his body. He winced, biting back a whimper of pain at the jarring of his bruised, battered body as Tritter slid an arm around his bare stomach, drawing him back against him._

"_What do you think?" the cop murmured, his voice almost gentle. "Was it worth it, House? Your little power play in that exam room? Was it worth _this_?"_

No, no it wasn't…

_But in spite of the pain, the humiliation, House was still far too proud and stubborn to admit that thought out loud. His jaw set in determination, and he simply turned his head away from Tritter, refusing to answer._

_As Tritter's hand against his stomach drifted lower, and House felt the cane pressing against the back of his thigh, trailing slowly inward, he could not suppress a shudder. Tritter laughed. It was a dark, ugly sound, taking sheer vicious pleasure in the terror he was evoking in another human being – and House had never heard anything so chilling._

_Tritter's smirk was audible in his voice as he whispered, "I'll ask you again later."_

"It was Tritter, wasn't it? He did this to you!"

In the moment when he heard the name of his attacker, painful memories flooded House's mind. He shook his head as much in an attempt to shut them out as to deny Wilson's words. The nightmare images seemed to last a lifetime, each moment replayed in vivid detail – though in reality, mere seconds had passed.

House was shaking violently, his heart pounding, his breath shallow and ragged. He jerked his arms away from Wilson's gentle hands so hard and quickly that he accidentally cracked his head against the passenger side window. The sharp pain only intensified his panic, confusing him as it mingled with other, remembered pains.

"House?" Wilson reached out a cautious hand. "House…you're okay…it's all right, you're safe now…"

House shook his head emphatically, his head lowered, his eyes focused on his lap as he backed up against the door of the car. "Please," he whispered, his voice so soft and breathless that Wilson almost didn't catch it. "Please…don't…don't touch me…"

Wilson's eyes widened with shock and dismay at the word he had rarely heard from his friend's lips, as well as at the abrupt shift from calm to utter panic that had overcome House in the last few moments.

"I won't," he promised. "It's all right…House…it's all right…it's just me, okay?"

_Did I push him too hard?_ Wilson silently cursed himself. _I shouldn't have forced the issue yet – it's still too sensitive for him to deal with it._

As he tried to calm his friend, he used the same words he had used during House's first panic attack. This time, however, he was careful not to touch him, as even the slightest brush of his hand seemed to trigger terrifying memories.

Wilson didn't want to think about what those memories might be.

"House…you're safe…you're okay…" he whispered, carefully keeping his distance. "Shhh, it's okay…"

Gradually, finally, House began to come out of the attack, his breathing returning to normal, the shaking slowly subsiding. Finally, he looked up at Wilson, and Wilson was relieved to see genuine recognition in his eyes – mingled with a confused, lost expression that broke the younger doctor's heart.

"Wilson?" House whispered uncertainly, his breath still hard and shaky.

"Yeah." Wilson tried for a smile that didn't quite make it. "It's just me."

House stared at him for a long moment, before looking away. He frowned as he tried to piece together what had just happened. When he did, he cringed, turning away from Wilson and resting his head in his arm on the dashboard. Wilson frowned, concerned, not quite daring to reach out to House – not yet.

"House?" he attempted, his voice uncertain.

House did not raise his head, shaking it slowly against his arm, his voice slightly muffled and full of such vehement disgust that it made Wilson wince to hear it.

"So stupid," House muttered. "Just…pathetic."

"No," Wilson slowly countered. "It's not, House. This isn't going to be easy to deal with. It's normal to…to freak out, every once in a while…"

"Try every thirty seconds," House sighed, raising his head slightly. "Is _that _normal?"

Wilson let out his own sigh, wishing he had words to help his friend, but he wasn't really sure those words existed. Finally venturing to place a gentle hand on House's shoulder, relieved when he did not flinch or pull away, Wilson turned back toward the front of the car.

"Okay. We're not being followed. We'll go to…a hotel, for tonight. And…we'll talk there," he concluded.

House gave him a dubious sidelong look as Wilson turned the key in the ignition and pulled the car back onto the road for the third time in half an hour. "What if I don't want to…?"

His voice trailed off, and Wilson's heart lurched, as he glanced in the rearview mirror, and caught sight of something that was usually a troubling sight – but in these circumstances, was utterly terrifying.

Flashing blue lights.


	12. Chapter 12

Wilson's heart pounded, his mouth dry with fear, as he pulled the car over to the curb yet again with trembling hands

A/N: I apologize for the mistake in posting this chapter earlier, I accidentally posted the copy my beta sent me and not the correct chapter. This mistake has been corrected now, thanx for your understanding 

Wilson's heart pounded, his mouth dry with fear, as he pulled the car over to the curb yet again with trembling hands.

"It's probably nothing," he reassured House in a voice that was low to disguise its trembling, the words as much for his own benefit as for House's. "Just a routine stop…"

"Are you out of your freaking mind?" House demanded, each word slow and pronounced and deliberate, staring at Wilson in incredulous horror. "Don't _stop_!"

"I haven't got a choice, House," Wilson explained, his voice as tense as his shoulders as he anxiously watched the rearview mirror. So far, there was no sign of the man who had pulled them over. "You think it would be better if I tried to outrun him?"

"This is not good." House shook his head, not acknowledging Wilson's point at all as he glanced over his shoulder toward the police car parked behind them. Mere seconds later, he looked again, an expression of sheer dread in his wide blue eyes. "Oh shit…oh shit…Wilson…" His voice held a pleading note as he looked to his friend again, his desperation palpable between them.

Wilson's own eyes were a little too wide, his breath a little too quick, but he did his best to stay calm. He reached out a steadying hand to House's arm, meeting his gaze intently, silently commanding his focus. Wilson knew that he probably had only a few moments to try to ensure that House would not freak out in front of the cop, and make their situation that much worse.

"House…" he began in a slow, certain voice, as steady as he could manage. "…you have to calm down. He has a reason to stop us…"

"Yeah, to shut us up for good…"

"House." Wilson's voice was slightly sharper, warning, but he managed to maintain control – just barely – in spite of his own rising fears. "_No. _I was pulling on and off the road every few hundred yards, weaving all over, because _someone _decided we should switch drivers while still moving."

He raised a mildly accusing brow in House's direction, disappointed when instead of the mild amusement he had hoped for, he saw only self-disgust in House's eyes before he looked away, embarrassed.

"House." Wilson gently squeezed his friend's arm, troubled by the violent shaking he felt as the older man looked up at him again reluctantly. "He has a valid reason to stop me. This is probably nothing." He hesitated, his voice softening to gentle his words as he added, "Not all cops are like Tritter, you know."

House studied Wilson's expression for a long moment, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat, his eyes wide and apprehensive. He _wanted _to believe Wilson's reassurances – wanted it desperately – but his recent experience would not allow him to believe that this was nothing more than a routine traffic stop. Even so, he couldn't deny one part of what Wilson had said.

Trying to run would only make things worse.

"Try to stay calm," Wilson repeated. A tall figure, his face obscured by the glare of his headlights, began to approach the car. "No offense…but now would be a really bad time to make with the crazy."

House shot him a dirty look, as he muttered a sarcastic, "Thanks," under his breath. He faced the front of the car, fighting to control his ragged nerves. He hardly dared to look as the patrolman came to Wilson's window – but he _had _to.

He had to _know._

"You guys doin' all right tonight?" the officer asked in a calm, vaguely suspicious tone.

House let out the breath he had been holding in a shaky sigh, even before he glanced up at the unfamiliar face of the man outside the window. He did not recognize the man's voice, either, and was relieved to find that the officer was not one of the men who had raped him. However, he still was not able to completely.

Just because this cop wasn't there, didn't mean he was above helping his colleague get back at House – assuming he _was _Tritter's colleague.

"Yes, sir, I'm – I'm sorry."

Wilson stammered slightly over the words, reassured by House's visible relief. He was anxious to end this encounter as swiftly and painlessly as possible. After all, he had no idea what other Princeton cops might be in league with Tritter, and he knew that neither he nor House would be able to relax completely until they were safe in the privacy of a hotel room for the night.

"I just…well, my cell phone keeping ringing, and…and I don't like to drive and talk on the phone at the same time. Safety first, you know? So – I pulled over…"

"You were weaving a bit back there," the officer pointed out with a disapproving frown.

"Yeah, I – I _did _try to answer it once," Wilson admitted with a shaky smile that was meant to be casual, but failed miserably. "So – you can see why I – usually don't…" Inwardly, he cringed, aware that his off-the-cuff lie was not very convincing, but hoping that it would be good enough to appease the officer and get him to send them on their way.

Instead, the officer raised a dubious eyebrow in Wilson's direction. "How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?"

"What? Nothing!" Wilson protested, incredulous, slightly sputtering with nervousness. "I haven't been drinking at all!"

The officer nodded slowly, suspicion in his eyes, as he shone his flashlight into the car, aiming it into House's face. The older man tensed, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the headrest behind him, struggling to control the mounting panic with which he was warring.

_Not him…not Tritter…just some random badge on a random stop…don't panic, don't panic…just…_

"What about him?" the officer asked Wilson. "He been drinking?"

"No, sir," Wilson sighed. "Neither one of us has had anything to drink tonight."

The officer still wasn't convinced.

When he made Wilson get out of the car for a sobriety test, House's impending panic won another minor battle, as he fought to reassure himself that it was _not _just a ploy to get them separated; they were _not _both going to be arrested on trumped-up charges and locked up where Tritter and his friends would have unhindered access to them.

_Just routine…just normal procedure…not a trap…not…no, no, _please, _no…_

When Wilson got back into the car, House let out the shaky breath he had been holding. Before he could stop himself, he'd reached over and gripped Wilson's wrist with a trembling hand. It was a desperate, restraining grip – as if he could keep Wilson from going anywhere just by holding on as tightly as he could. House stared at him, his face ashen, his eyes wide and pleading.

It was heartbreaking.

Wilson forced a smile to his lips in spite of his friend's painfully tight grip, keeping his tone light as he informed him, "Well, I'm officially not drunk, so he's just running my tags and license, to make sure there's no other reason to hold us…and then we'll be on our way again."

House looked away, letting out a soft breath, but his hold still did not loosen, and Wilson could feel his clenched fingers trembling on his wrist.

Gently, he laid his other hand over House's white knuckles, the unexpected gesture drawing the older man's gaze up to his, uncertainty in his eyes. Wilson held his gaze firmly as he spoke in a calm, even tone.

"House…it's all right. We'll be out of this in two minutes. Okay? I know this has got to be…terrifying, for you, but…I promise you, everything is going to be fine. All right?"

There was a brief flash of something cynical and distrusting in House's eyes, before he nodded, breaking Wilson's gaze and turning his head away – and finally, awkwardly easing his hold on Wilson's wrist. He glanced down at the white flesh he had just released, watching with Wilson as it turned red. He let out a forced, uncomfortable laugh.

"Sorry about that."

Wilson tried to return the laugh, but the look in House's eyes lingered in his mind – that desolate, bitter something that said that despite all Wilson's reassurances, despite his best intentions to help him through this – House knew that Wilson really did not have the power to keep his rather broad promise.

_I promise you, everything is going to be fine…_

But neither of them knew whether or not it would be; the best Wilson could do was hope.

And though the need to control, the need to _know_, the need to win at any cost had always been more House's thing than Wilson's – in that moment, Wilson knew that hope was just not enough.

A few minutes later, the police officer was handing Wilson a pink warning ticket, advising him to turn his cell phone off completely while driving. The man headed back to his car. He turned off the blue flashing lights and pulled onto the road, disappearing into the darkness ahead of them.

"See?" Wilson stated, although his voice was shaking with relief. "No big deal. We weren't doing anything wrong…"

"That doesn't always matter."

Wilson fell silent, unable to argue with the the truth behind House's quiet words. The reason why House knew that to be fact was like a dagger through the younger man's heart.

House continued, his voice carefully even, his eyes straight ahead. "If it had been…Tritter…or…someone working with him…there'd be a false report filed on us so fast…"

He swallowed hard as he fought to control the fears renewed by his own words. Finally he looked up at Wilson, a quietly stricken expression in his bright blue eyes.

"It doesn't matter if we did anything wrong. If he had wanted to, he could have done anything." His voice dropped to a whisper, shaking his head as he finished, "They're the ones with the power."

Wilson stared at House for a long moment, before looking in the direction the cop had gone, lost in thought, as his mind ran through the beginnings of an idea. Finally, it set with determination, and he turned toward House, who was watching him closely with a single brow raised in curiosity.

"What time is it?" Wilson asked, staring out the windshield, though the clock on the dashboard was only a glance away.

At that, House raised both eyebrows, puzzled by his friend's behavior as he looked at the clock. For the most part his reactions had returned to normal when the cop had driven away down the road, although his breathing was still a bit too rapid.

"8:30."

Wilson nodded as he reached for the gear shift to put the car into drive.

"We've got one more stop to make before we go to the hotel."

House frowned, confused, as Wilson parked the car outside a pawnshop. They had entered a part of town that House wouldn't have thought the younger, more straight-laced doctor even knew existed. As Wilson turned to smile at him, House gave him a wary look.an unspoken question clear in his eyes.

"Come on," was all Wilson said, nodding toward the shop as he opened his door and got out.

Before House had a chance to open his door, Wilson was at his side, opening it for him and helping him to stand. He pressed the cane into House's hand, meeting his eyes with a reassuring smile House saw the sorrow and sympathy in his friend's gaze, and it filled him with a sick sense of shame, knowing that he must look so scared and pathetic, if his appearance brought such a look to Wilson's eyes.

He had to look away.

With a steadying hand under House's left elbow, Wilson helped him up onto the curb.

The shop was dimly lit, and empty of any customers. A bell jangled loudly over the door, and a short, overweight man with dark, oily hair and suspicious eyes came out of the back room to the counter. He eyed them with a shrewd look.

"What can I do for you boys?" he asked – though even Wilson was at least ten years older than he was.

Wilson took one more glance at House before committing completely to the idea he had been pondering in the car. With a slight nod, he looked back at the shopkeeper, his eyes dark and harder than House had ever seen them. He came directly to the point, answering the man's question in a low, dangerous tone of voice.

"We're here to buy a gun."


	13. Chapter 13

House stared at Wilson in disbelief, his mouth already open to protest

House stared at Wilson in disbelief, his mouth already open to protest.

Wilson held out a hand beneath the level of the counter in a discreet gesture for silence, his eyes never leaving the face of the shopkeeper as he continued to explain what he was looking for.

"Something light…easily held and operated in one hand. We'll be needing ammunition, too, of course."

After disappearing into the back room for a few moments, the shopkeeper returned with an average-sized black pistol, holding it out to Wilson for inspection. "This is a Beretta M9. Fires fifteen shots without reloading. Very quick action, easy handling. Sound like what you might be looking for?"

The young doctor took the weapon, turning it over in his hand, opening it and closing it again, taking aim at a point on the far wall before lowering it to the counter and looking at the shopkeeper again.

"How much?"

"One-fifty."

Wilson nodded, unfazed by the price. "I assume you can arrange for the proper paperwork to be in order?"

The shopkeeper nodded, his eyes narrowed as he looked over the clean-cut, professional-looking man who stood before him, wondering at the cool ease with which he handled the gun, and spoke of a topic which, at best, hovered around the edges of legality.

"Well…there _are _background checks. Anda waiting period. Thirty days."

"That won't do," Wilson replied without hesitation, turning away from the counter and taking a couple of steps toward the door. "I guess we'll need to find someplace else…"

"Wait a second," the shopkeeper interrupted hurriedly. "You two look familiar. You were in here about a month ago, weren't you? I think…I think you already completed the paperwork, didn't you?"

Wilson turned to face the man again, a sly smile on his lips, his eyes dancing with triumph. "Why yes. Yes, we have."

The shopkeeper nodded. "Give me a minute. I'll see if I can find it."

Ten minutes later, they were walking out of the shop, a metal box containing both the gun and a smaller cardboard box of bullets under Wilson's arm. He placed the gun in the front between the seats before helping House into the car, then went around and got in himself. Only once the car doors were closed did House turn in his seat to face Wilson fully, an expression on his face that was equal parts dubious apprehension, and an almost awed childlike excitement.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Wilson's expression did not change as he pulled the car onto the road again. "You need protection," he replied calmly.

House retorted with a rude snort. "I _need _a padded room and a few dozen doses of Valium. And don't try to quote me on that, because I'll just deny everything."

Wilson nodded with a shrug. "Of course."

"It's just…are you _sure _this is a good idea?"

"Tritter has a gun," Wilson pointed out, quite unnecessarily. "And you're right. Until we can figure out some kind of a game plan, anyway – going to the police is out. If he _does _come after you, you're going to need some way to defend yourself."

House considered that for a moment, forced to admit, if only to himself, that the idea of having the weapon in his possession _did _make him feel a bit safer. Still, Wilson's behavior seemed so strange, so unusually calculated, that he couldn't resist pushing a little, trying to figure out what had brought on the unexpected decision.

"Yeah…and I'm sure that 'way to defend myself' will be kept under lock and key, with the bullets under a separate lock and key somewhere else – with both locations known only to you. Right?"

"That would be pointless," Wilson replied with a shrug. "If you're attacked again, you won't have time to load the gun. We're loading it as soon as we get to the hotel."

"So…the best plan you could come up with…involves giving a loaded gun to a rape victim suffering from paranoia, PTSD, flashbacks and recurring panic attacks?" House let out a soft scoffing sound, shaking his head as he looked out the front windshield again. "Brilliant plan, Dr. Wilson."

Now it was Wilson's turn to let out a short bark of disbelieving laughter. "Oh, God, no. I'll be holding onto the loaded weapon, House. At least…for a while." He added with a gentle smile, "I like my body nice and healthy and bullet-free, thanks. I'll wait 'til we're both sure you're not gonna mistake me for Tritter in the middle of the night before letting you keep the gun."

House's heart sank slightly at that knowledge, and he sighed. "A lot of good that'll do me if he comes when you're not around," he muttered grudgingly. There was a note of shame in his voice. With those words, he knew that he allowed his fears – his need for his friend -- to be known.

"That's why I'm not going to _be _'not around'."

House looked sharply up at Wilson. "You still have a job, responsibilities," he pointed out. "Just 'cause your best friend is a pathetic loser doesn't mean you have to spend every waking moment…"

"No, or I would have been spending every waking moment with you long before now."

House's curious stare became a glare at the unexpected barb – but in a strange way, the easy familiarity, the normalcy of the comment, helped to soothe some of his fear and tension. Still, he didn't like the idea of Wilson going to so much trouble just to be sure that he was not alone. He tried again.

"You can't just…"

"Watch me." Wilson flashed House a warm, reassuring smile, reaching out to briefly touch his friend's arm before returning his hand to the steering wheel. "I can, and I will, House. Get used to it – because you're not getting rid of me until Tritter's in jail or…well, until Tritter's out of the picture, one way or another."

House raised an eyebrow in surprise. Wilson's suspicious words were a bit alarming, but more than anything – they were strangely comforting. He would not have admitted it to his friend, but despite his protests, he was intensely relieved to know the lengths to which Wilson was willing to go to make him feel safe.

Wilson checked them into a room in a small hotel on the outskirts of Princeton, one that was out of the way and anonymous enough to ensure that no one would look for them there, but also appeared to be clean and safe. He used a false name to purchase the room, and was relieved when the bored girl behind the counter did not bother to look too closely at his credit card, or ask for ID.

Once they had gathered their belongings and were in the room, Wilson double-checked the locks and chained the door, before finally turning to face his friend, a gently expectant expression on his face.

House had been watching Wilson from his seat on the bed farthest from the door, as he had secured the room for the night, but abruptly looked away when faced with the soft question in his friend's eyes.

"I'm tired," he stated in a flat, even voice that he hoped left no room for argument. "Think I'll go to sleep early…"

"No…"

The word was slow and drawn out, with slightly exaggerated patience, as Wilson crossed the room to sit on the bed at House's side, in a gesture that was equal parts a show of support for his friend, and an effort to prevent him from stretching out on the bed and going to sleep.

"…we need to talk first."

"No, we don't."

"House…"

"I don't wanna talk about this, Wilson." House's voice was heavy, weary with the weight of emotion as he closed his eyes, turning his head away from Wilson's intent gaze. "I didn't wanna talk about it last night…or this morning…and chances are pretty good that I'm not gonna wanna talk about it tomorrow, either. Just in case you were wondering. I just want to go to sleep and forget it ever happened…"

"But it _did _happen."

Silence fell between them after Wilson's quiet statement. House swallowed hard, visibly struggling with his emotions. He stubbornly remained turned away, refusing to lift his head, or even open his eyes – desperate to hide the vulnerability that had already been made so obvious to Wilson over the past few days.

"Wilson…" he whispered, his voice thick and hoarse. "…don't."

"I don't have a choice, House."

Wilson's tone was apologetic as he reached out a hand to rest on House's knee. He wanted to put his arms around the slim, trembling frame, to hold him and reassure him that he was safe, that no one would hurt him again. But he knew that such promises would be empty, and such intimate comfort rejected. The gentle hand on House's knee was as much as he dared to offer.

"See…the thing of it is…you might still be at risk," he explained softly, certain that the explanation was really unnecessary; House already knew all of this. "I might be, too. I…don't think Tritter and the others would be too thrilled about the idea that I know about what they did. Am I wrong?"

House's head dipped lower, and he opened his eyes with a heavy sigh of resignation, keeping them focused on the floor in front of him as he shook his head in reluctant admission.

Wilson nodded once, acknowledging the confirmation of his conclusions. "So…if you don't feel like talking about the details…" he went on quietly, "…I really don't blame you. I wouldn't, either. But…we're not exactly out of the woods yet. We have to decide what we're going to do – and that means that we have to talk about _some _things. We have to…to work out a plan…"

"I'm sorry."

Wilson barely caught the whispered words, which almost disappeared amidst his own. When he realized what his friend had said, his heart lurched with painful sympathy, and his hand on House's knee gave a gentle squeeze. Shaking his head, he struggled over the words of a firm denial.

"You have _nothing _to be sorry for."

"I shouldn't have come to you. Shouldn't have – have gotten you mixed up in this…"

Wilson felt a flash of anger at those words, though it was in no way directed at House. "No," he snapped without really meaning to, his tone sarcastic and seething with quiet fury, "you should have just lain there and bled to death and not tried to get any help. Forget the fact that you'd just been beaten and assaulted and…"

His voice broke off abruptly when he felt House tense under his touch. Wilson let out his breath in a weary sigh. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer, trembling slightly. "It's just…House…you didn't do anything wrong. Okay? This is not your fault."

"I know that," House whispered, though the lost look in his eyes told Wilson that he actually felt otherwise. "I'm a doctor, for God's sake, Wilson; I've already heard all this. I know that it's normal to…to feel shame, and guilt, and to think it's my fault, and I know those things are lies. I don't need to hear it from you."

"I know you know it." Wilson paused, waiting for House to look up at him before he added, "But you still _do _need to hear it."

House stared at Wilson for a long moment, an open, trapped expression in his eyes – before he abruptly stood up, shaking Wilson's hand off his leg as he pulled himself shakily to his feet by the headboard of the bed. He moved past his friend as quickly as possible, keeping his back turned to him as he moved to his bag on the dresser and opened it, rifling through the contents with trembling hands.

"I…I need to take a shower…and…and go to bed," he insisted, a dangerous tremor in his voice. "There's no need to…"

"I just _explained _the need, House." Wilson could not keep a trace of frustration from his voice, running a hand through his dark hair before resting that hand at the back of his neck and trying to squeeze some of the tension from his own aching muscles. "I need to know what we're dealing with here…"

House spun around, more quickly than Wilson would have thought possible given his physical condition, eyes blazing in defiant, terrified challenge as he glared at his friend.

"Tritter," he stated. "That's what we're dealing with. You need to watch out for him, or any other cops for that matter. You need to keep your mouth shut, because if he finds out you know, he'll kill you. And that's about the size of it, Wilson. There's nothing else you need to know." He turned his back again, but not before Wilson heard him add bitterly under his breath, "Not to keep us safe, anyway."

Wilson frowned, stung by the implied accusation in his friend's words. "House…" He rose from the mattress and crossed the room to House's side, even as the wiser part of him warned him away, that now was not the time to press an argument with the traumatized older man. "…I'm not trying to get you to talk about this for _me_. _You _need to talk about this – and our safety is only one reason. It's a _big _reason, but it's not the only one…"

"Yeah, the biggest one is so that you finally get to play therapist with the biggest emotional head case you've ever had the good fortune to run across," House snapped without looking up at him, pulling the clean set of clothes Wilson had packed for him out of the duffel bag and laying them to the side on the low, long dresser. "It's what you've always wanted, isn't it? Something to break through the walls and get me to let you in? Guess you finally got your wish."

Wilson flinched as if he had been slapped, hurt by the coldly spoken assessment of his motives. He hesitated, his mouth opening once or twice before he finally replied, his voice barely over a whisper.

"You don't mean that."

There was a long pause.

"No, I don't," House agreed after a moment's consideration. Still, he cast an angry glance in his friend's direction, the blazing blue flame in his eyes _daring _Wilson to come any closer. "Because I'm _not _giving you that wish. Sorry, but this isn't something I feel like sharing. Not that I _ever _feel like sharing with you, but…"

House's voice trailed off abruptly, and he froze, staring down at the item he had just removed from the duffel bag, now held in both hands in front of him. Wilson took a few hesitant steps forward, concerned, until he could see what was gripped in House's shaking hands, the focus of his wide-eyed, stricken attention.

It was a worn leather belt – the only one House owned, Wilson had discovered when packing the duffel bag. In fact, he had found no belt at all in House's apartment, and had been forced to resort to packing the one he had been wearing when he'd shown up in his office…

_Oh, God…the one he was wearing when they…when he was…_

"House…I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his face going hot with shame at his own thoughtlessness. "The other clothes – I – I threw them out, but – but this is the only belt you have, so – so I thought…"

"No…no, you were right to…I mean…" House stumbled over his words, sounding very distracted, and suddenly utterly exhausted, and Wilson knew when he spoke that he was not just talking about the ill-fated belt in his hands. "Wilson, I…I'm sorry. I know you're just…you were just…just trying to help…"

House lowered his head, his eyes tightly closed as he raised one shaking fist to press against his forehead, as if trying to physically press back the onslaught of painful memories that filled his mind at the mere sight of the familiar accessory.

_But…why…why should it be such a big deal…?_

The thought was abruptly swallowed up in unwilling, horrified understanding as Wilson's eyes fell on the back of House's neck, exposed as he lowered his head, the collar of his shirt falling backward slightly behind him – to reveal the dark, inch-thick purple band of bruising that had so puzzled the oncologist when he had first examined his friend.

But the source of those strange markings was no longer a mystery.

No – Wilson's own thoughtlessness had left House holding the vicious reminder in his own hands.


	14. Chapter 14

As he watched House staring down with stricken eyes at the belt in his trembling hands, Wilson had never felt such overwhelming, consuming rage

As he watched House staring down with stricken eyes at the belt in his trembling hands, Wilson had never felt such overwhelming, consuming rage. It boiled up within him, shaking him to his core, as he thought of the agony of memories that had to be flooding House's mind in that moment. He stared at what should have been nothing more than a simple clothing accessory – but would never be again.

So much had been stolen, changed and turned on its head, without House's consent.

_They've destroyed him…It would have been more merciful if they'd killed him than to…to do _this _to a man so powerful, so strong and full of life…_

Without thought for his anger-fueled actions, Wilson swiftly closed the distance between himself and his friend. Ignoring the pang of guilt he felt when House flinched at his sudden advance, Wilson snatched the offending belt from his hands. Stalking across the room to the bathroom, he hurled it into the trash can.

If he could have burned the thing, he would have.

He turned toward House again, seething with helpless fury – and felt that fury melt into sympathetic tears at the pitiful sight his friend made. House was still facing the dresser, his head bowed, staring down at his trembling hands cupped in front of him, as if he could still see the belt there.

_He probably does see it…_ Wilson struggled to rid his mind of the hideous images that filled it, against his will. _…and what they used it to do to him…_

"House," he whispered, his tone softening as he took a cautious step toward the other man. "Hey…look at me…"

He merely wanted to gain his friend's attention, to draw him out of the waking nightmare that was so obviously consuming his thoughts. House looked up at him, brilliant blue eyes wide and aching with loss and confusion – looking right at him, but not seeing him. Instead of leading House _out _of it, Wilson glimpsed the nightmare there – and it stole his breath away.

"Hey," Wilson repeated, raising his voice slightly as he moved to House's side, holding his gaze the entire time so as not to alarm him. "House…it's over. It's over, okay? You're safe now…"

But he choked over the words, unable to believe them himself, and certainly unable to make them sound convincing to House. Gently, he reached out to touch House's arms, seeking to ground him, to remind him of where he was, and with whom. He knew it shouldn't, but it still stung when House jerked away from him with a sharp intake of breath, shaking his head, unable to meet his gaze as he backed up against the dresser.

"Don't," House whispered, the word almost a sob. "Don't touch me…just…just, please, don't…" His hands were out in front of him now in a pleading gesture that broke Wilson's heart.

"Okay," he whispered, mirroring the gesture, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. "Okay…I won't…I'm sorry…I'm just trying to help, and I know I'm screwing it all up, but I don't know what to do, House. I want to help you, but I don't have the first clue what I should do…"

"Can…can you…?" House's voice was hesitant, and he stopped without finishing the question, shaking his head in defeat.

"What? Anything, House. What do you need me to do?" Wilson's tone was almost eager, seizing on the possibility that there might be something he could do after all.

House looked up at him, his eyes apologetic for what he was about to say, his voice barely a whisper. "Can you get out? For a little while?"

Wilson blinked, startled – and unreasonably hurt – by the request.

"It's just…I haven't been…_alone_…since…since _before_, and…and it's just too much," House explained, looking away. He was obviously uncomfortable with the hurt in Wilson's eyes, but needed to make him understand. "I know you wanna help. I know you're trying, but…but I need some space. I…don't want you to see me…right now."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, before nodding slowly. "I get that," he replied quietly. "I just…just thought you _didn't_ want to be alone…"

House met his eyes for an instant in a brief, rueful grin as he shrugged, "I don't. But…" His voice trailed off again, and he shook his head, giving up on making his feelings any clearer.

But Wilson _did_ get it.

"Okay," he repeated, heading toward the door without hesitation. He paused, glancing at the metal box on the table uncertainly before picking it up and putting it under his arm. Just as he opened the door, House's anxious voice, tinged with a note of panic, stopped him.

"Wilson?"

He turned to face his friend, and read the question in his eyes. He flashed House a reassuring smile, hoping the older man couldn't tell that he had to force it.

"I'm just gonna be right outside," he told him. "I won't be far. No one will get close to our door without my seeing them first."

The tension in House's expression eased somewhat, and he nodded, clearly relieved. Wilson nodded too, satisfied, before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

Intense relief and blind terror mingled in House's mind as Wilson disappeared out the door. He watched the empty spot where he had been for a few moments, trying to steady his breathing, to calm the rising fears that were swelling up in his mind, forming an enormous wave that threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Shakily, he sat down on the foot of the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands, his eyes tightly closed in a vain attempt to shut out the tormenting memories that had been triggered by the sight of the belt – but the images only grew clearer when he closed his eyes.

_As the handcuffs fell away again, House's battered, naked body collapsed to the floor in a pitiful heap, trembling with pain and exhaustion. For the first time in nearly an hour, his hands were free; theoretically, he could have fought back – but his body felt heavy, paralyzed with shock and pain. _

_A menacing whisper in his ear sent a shudder down his spine. "Time to get this show on the road, Dr. House…"_

_Tritter's hand, sliding with obscene intimacy along the side of his hip, edging inward, drew House out of shock and into panic. He tried to knock the invasive touch away with his own weak, trembling hand, but found himself immediately and easily restrained, his wrists crossed in front of him and held firmly in one of Tritter's large, meaty hands._

"_Don't fight me, House," Tritter warned him, his voice chillingly soft, utterly in control, as he picked up the discarded handcuffs and locked House's hands together, in front of him this time. A cruel smile on his lips, he jerked House's head back by the hair, forcing him to meet his cold gaze. "This is gonna be bad enough for you as it is. Don't give me an excuse to make it worse."_

_House saw the reason in Tritter's words – he really did – but when Tritter's hand touched him again, reason ceased to matter to him. He struggled instinctively, though he knew there was no way he could escape._

"_No!" he protested, though the word came out as a moan of weary pain and fear. "Don't touch me…"_

_Tritter cursed under his breath in frustration, striking out at the helpless, terrified man with three brutal blows to his face in rapid succession, leaving House dazed, dizzy and on the verge of blacking out. The detective took the opportunity to drag the momentarily pliant doctor to his feet, holding him by one arm as he held out his other hand toward one of his men._

"_Give me his belt," he ordered. When the man gave him a questioning look, he added with a grin, "I'm gonna show him who his daddy is."_

_The others seemed to find that comment hilarious, laughing uproariously as Tritter dragged House off toward another room of the house._

_A bedroom._

_House had expected another beating when Tritter had asked for his belt – and considering the worse fate he knew the cop had planned for him, he didn't know whether to view the prospect of another beating to his already bruised and torn body with dread or relief. When Tritter grabbed him by the back of the head and bowed him over the foot of the bed, however, House's panic returned, and he struggled to rise, desperate to escape the ultimate degradation to which he was about to be subjected._

_Tritter pulled him up, just long enough to hit him in the face again. While he was too disoriented to fight, Tritter wrapped the belt around his neck, pulling the end of it through the buckle and pulling it taut. _

_House gasped for breath that wouldn't come, his bound hands rising to grasp uselessly at the firm leather that constricted his throat, as Tritter wrapped the length of the belt around his fist, holding it firm behind House's head. He leaned in close, holding House so that he could not pull away as he spoke quietly into his ear._

"_You've got a choice, House," he murmured with a smug smile of satisfaction on his lips. "You can fight – like an idiot – or you can _breathe_. Which of those options sounds better to you right now, huh?"_

_House wanted to hold out, wanted it desperately. Every shred of pride and dignity he had remaining demanded that he resist his captor, that he refuse to submit despite the choking grip of the leather belt around his throat – but in the end, his survival instincts won out. Just before he would have passed out, his fingers ceased their frantic scrabbling at the belt, and he raised his bound hands over his head, abruptly going still in Tritter's grasp. Unable to speak, it was the only way he had of showing the man that he would not fight._

_Tritter immediately eased up, loosening the belt slightly, nodding his approval. "Good…good choice, House. _Smart_ choice. Now you're gonna keep still and quiet and do as you're told – or you're gonna die. Got that?"_

_House nodded, his eyes closed as he pressed his face into the mattress, fighting back a wave of nausea at the thought of what he was agreeing to accept. _

"_Good," Tritter repeated, running his hand slowly down House's quivering flank before removing his hand to unfasten the front of his own pants, shoving House's face down harder against the mattress. House heard a quiet crinkling sound, and was vaguely relieved that at least his rapist was going to wear a condom. "You've had this coming for a long time, House," he reminded him. "Mr. Always-Has-to-Be-in-Control. Let's see how powerful you feel when I get done with you!"_

_House tried to prepare himself – bracing himself for the pain, trying to focus on something, _anything_ but the ominous heat of the body that was pressing against him from behind. He was determined not to give Tritter any further satisfaction, no matter how degrading and painful this was going to be._

Don't scream…don't make a sound…don't let him see that it matters…

_His mental preparations were useless._

_In an instant, every thought, every attempt at rationalizing what was happening to him and compartmentalizing it, vanished, swallowed up in a sea of agony. A strangled cry of pain escaped his lips despite his best efforts, slipping past the restriction of the belt around his throat. _

_Tritter laughed – and House felt a sick wave of shame overwhelming him._

_It was brutal and ruthless and violent – and over mercifully quickly._

_Except – it_ wasn't _over._

_House had a few brief moments to try to recover from the trauma of what had just happened as Tritter finally released him, allowing him to collapse against the bed, his shoulders shaking with repressed shock, his entire body throbbing from the abuse it had taken. He swallowed back a sob of humiliated suffering, struggling to compose himself, while his face was still buried in the mattress, and he still had the ability to at least partially conceal his emotions._

_As soon as he had cleaned himself up and zipped up his pants, however, Tritter grabbed the end of the belt again, jerking House up off the bed by the makeshift leash around his neck. House was not able to move quickly enough to avoid the belt's pulling painfully taut against his throat again, and he gagged, struggling for breath and balance as Tritter forced him to his feet._

"_Come on, House," he sneered with false cheer. "Don't tell me you're wearing out on me already." He lowered his voice to a whisper, adding in an ominous voice of sadistic glee, "We're just getting started."_

_House's heart sank as Tritter dragged him back out into the main part of the house, shoving him to his knees, his back toward the three leering, laughing men who were waiting for them there. Tritter knelt on the floor beside him, using his grip on the belt to jerk House's face forward against the floor – leaving him humiliatingly exposed to the eager eyes of his tormentors._

"_Don't be shy, boys. _He's_ not." Tritter's voice was soft as he ran a deceptively soothing hand through House's hair, holding his head firmly down, his hands pinned in front of him so that he was helpless to resist. "Come on – who's next?"_


	15. Chapter 15

Wilson sat in the hall a few feet from the door of their hotel room, his knees drawn up in front of him – staring down at the tan metal gun box on the floor in front of him

Wilson sat in the hall a few feet from the door of their hotel room, his knees drawn up in front of him – staring down at the tan metal gun box on the floor in front of him. He glanced back toward the door, his eyes narrowing with rage as he thought of what House suffered alone in that room. He wanted nothing more than to be in there with him, helping him through it.

But House insisted on bearing the burden of this particular moment alone.

Feeling frustrated and useless, Wilson sighed, returning his eyes to the gun box. He picked it up, setting it on his stomach. Then he unfastened the latch and lifted the lid to reveal the weapon he had purchased. His throat went dry and his stomach felt queasy at the thought of actually _using_ the thing; but all it took was one thought of the way House looked in the hospital room during his examination – the look on House's face as he had stared at that belt – to make Wilson believe that he _was_ capable of firing the gun after all.

He thought again of House's panic attack, when they saw his stolen motorcycle parked outside his place.

_The bike was a warning…It wasn't there when I packed House's bag…which means Tritter _knew_ when he was coming home. Tritter's _watching _him…which means this isn't over. He won't be safe until Tritter's in prison – or dead. And I won't leave him – won't rest – until he's safe…_

Glancing once more in the direction of their room, he frowned with concern at the continued silence. Wilson took the gun from the box, reaching for the box of ammunition. His jaw set with resolution, he loaded the weapon with careful precision.

If Tritter did come after House again – Wilson was going to be ready.

Wilson was not aware of it as he focused his attention on the weapon in his hands – but he was being watched that very moment.

From the cracked door of another room down the hall, a pair of alert grey eyes stared out at him in impatient irritation. The owner of those eyes tapped her foot, barely suppressing a frustrated sigh. She slid the door shut again and turned her back to it, looking morosely around the bare surroundings of her own room.

When Jenna Leander had checked in that afternoon, a few hours before House and Wilson arrived at the hotel, she made sure that her room was just a few doors down from the room occupied by the object of her investigation.

The _allegedly_ unfaithful husband had gone out for the day with the "young lady" who had checked in with him. Jenna had it on good authority from the talkative desk clerk that they intended to be out until after dinner that evening. There was no reason in the world to think that she could not safely go out for the afternoon and do a bit of shopping. There should have been plenty of time to prepare for their return when she was finished.

It sounded good in theory, anyway.

But when Jenna had returned to the hotel, the maids were cleaning the rooms on that floor – making it impossible for her to place the tiny camera across the hall from her target's room. It had been nearly six o'clock already, but still too early to panic. After all, she still had hours before her target was supposed to return.

Finally, the maids left the floor, and Jenna opened the door, camera cupped in the palm of her hand. But when she ventured into the hall, she saw a man sitting in the hallway, his back against the wall a few feet away from room 408.

Her target was staying in room 410.

There was no way Jenna could place the camera while the stranger was watching…but she couldn't very well just turn around and go back into her room, either. That would be suspicious, and she knew that the first law of success in her chosen field was to act natural, and never draw too much attention to herself. So, pushing her dark hair back over her shoulders in a nervous gesture, she made her way down the hall to the snack machines, as if that was where she was headed all the time. She bought herself a Coke and a bag of Cheez-Its before returning to her room.

She gave the man a casual smile as she passed him, and he barely nodded in her direction, clearly very distracted. Jenna gave him a swift glance – and her eyes went wide, her heart giving a funny little lurch when she saw the pistol he held in his hands. Her eyes returned to his face for an instant, and she saw a trace of panic there, as he dropped the weapon from his trembling hands to the carpet, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.

"I-I'm not…I mean…this isn't what you…"

"Hey, I don't need to know," Jenna assured him, not looking too closely at him as she made her way swiftly down the hall. "None of my business."

The man just sat there for a moment, and Jenna thought she would make it safely to her room without any harm – until she heard him scrambling awkwardly to his feet behind her. She hurried her pace, her door almost within reach, her breath quickening as she realized that she might very well be in real danger. Just as she reached the door – the man blocked her path.

Jenna opened her mouth to scream, eyes wide with panic as she fumbled in her pocket for the can of pepper spray she had started carrying when she had started this job two months ago.

"Wait! Wait, please!" the young man protested, again holding his hands up in front of him – and Jenna paused, the pepper spray in her hand, when she realized that the gun was in neither of his hands. She glanced down the hallway, surprised to see the weapon sitting unattended on the carpet. She looked at the man standing before her, a single brow raised in a silent question.

"I'm not – I'm not dangerous, I swear. The gun – the gun's just for protection. I'm not like, a criminal or anything, I just…I…"

Jenna considered his words for a moment, her thumb subtly unfastening the safety on the pepper spray, although her fears were already fading. This man appeared to be as afraid of her as she had been of him; and if he wanted to hurt her, why would he have left the gun on the floor?

But if he didn't mean her any harm…

"Then…why are you blocking my door?"

"Because…well…I just need to be sure that you know that I'm not…not like some kind of psycho or anything…" He punctuated that statement with a slightly manic, nervous laugh that did nothing to help prove his point. "…with the gun and all. Because…well, I don't want you to freak out and…and call the police…" As he finished his rambling, stammering explanation, the man gave a little grimace, as if realizing the way his words sounded even as they left his mouth.

"So…you're not a criminal…but…you're afraid of my calling the police."

The man stared at her, his deep brown eyes intense on hers as he drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, and Jenna could not help noticing the way the soft puff of air moved his dark, slightly floppy hair in a rather appealing way. He gave her a rueful smile and a weak shrug as he admitted quietly,

"Yeah. That's…about the size of it."

Jenna shrugged, suppressing the urge to smile. This man did not seem dangerous – but she still knew better than to let down her guard completely. "I wasn't going to, anyway," she assured him, surprised to find, as she spoke the words, that she meant them.

"Good, that's…that's good," he sighed, relief evident in his trembling voice. "I mean…the gun's legal and everything!" His eyes widened with realization, as if he had just remembered that fact, and he glanced eagerly back down the hallway. "I have papers; I can show you!"

"No!" Jenna protested in alarm, reaching out instinctively to catch his arm as he started to move past her. "No, there's…no need to get the…papers…"

At her hesitant tone and carefully chosen words, understanding dawned in the man's expressive eyes, and Jenna was strangely reassured by his self-deprecating expression as he rolled his eyes.

"Right…right," he nodded with a sigh, shaking his head. "You don't want me going near the gun. That's…understandable. Because right now…" He let out a nervous laugh, nodding toward the pepper spray in her hand, "…you're better armed than I am. And…I'd bet that's how you like it."

Bemused by and attracted to the charming, boyish man despite her initial suspicions, Jenna allowed a trace of amusement to show on her face at last as she nodded slowly, her voice even and calm as she raised the pepper spray slightly.

"Yes…yes, it is."

"Good…good, that's fine," the man babbled on, slipping awkwardly out from between her and the door to her room, giving her a shy little nod and meeting her eyes for just an instant before looking back down the hallway. "I'm sorry to have…given you the wrong idea, and…and scared you, and…you know…chased you down the hallway…"

The nervous rambling was back, but Jenna had to admit that she found it adorable.

Her curiosity was piqued as she wondered what the man's story was – why he was hanging out in the hallway with a gun, and why he was afraid of the police.

That was perhaps the strangest detail of the whole scenario. She was trained to be a private investigator, with a sharp sense of curiosity, and a natural suspicion when it came to strangers. And yet, somehow, after only a few moments – she was certain that he was telling the truth.

He shrugged, still stammering out his apology as he backed down the hallway. "…yeah, so…basically sorry for…all of the above. I'll just go…back to my room now, and…"

Jenna opened her mouth to speak, though she wasn't really sure what she was going to say – just that for some reason, she didn't want him to leave just yet. But before she could say a word, a series of strange, unsettling sounds from further down the hall drew both their attention – several loud thumping sounds, following by the distinctive tinkling sound of shattering glass, and a muffled cry that sounded more like the whimper of a wounded animal than like a human sound.

The charming stranger's eyes went wide as he looked back at her for just a moment, fear and concern clear in his expression. His words suddenly clear and concise for the first time since he had spoken to her, he said, "Gotta go," and hurried down the hall, taking a key card from his pocket and sliding it through the lock on the outside of room 408.

When the door opened, the quiet whimpering sounds grew slightly clearer, and then cut off again as the door was firmly shut. Jenna stood there for a moment outside her own door, frowning, wondering who – or possibly what – was waiting for him inside that room. She was momentarily torn between disappearing into her own room for the night, and knocking on the door, just to appease her curiosity.

Before she could do either, the door opened again, and the man stepped back out into the hallway, hurriedly gathering up the gun and the box and ammunition with trembling, fumbling hands. He froze for a moment when he saw her still standing there, watching him quietly.

"Um…my friend…had a…a nightmare. That's all. Nothing to worry about. Nobody hurt, or dying, or…anything…like…that…Um…don't call the cops."

The last words were a hurried rush as the man disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him. Jenna hesitated a moment before turning and walking into her own room, a part of her regretting that her natural curiosity had not overcome her lingering apprehensions – and also regretting that in the entire encounter, she had failed to find out the name of the mysterious, attractive stranger in the hall.


	16. Chapter 16

In the space of an hour, House's world had been reduced to nothing more than a black vortex of suffering and violation

_In the space of an hour, House's world had been reduced to nothing more than a black vortex of suffering and violation. _

_Tritter's friends each took their turns forcing themselves upon him while he knelt there, helpless on the floor. While one of them was raping him, the others laughed and jeered, making lewd, mocking comments about his body, deliberately kicking and striking out at his damaged leg – just generally doing whatever they could think of to humiliate and torment him, while their co-conspirator violated him._

_The entire time, Tritter knelt beside him, unsettlingly close, his unyielding hand holding House's head down against the floor. The belt was wound tightly around his fist, restricting House's breathing just enough to be a constant warning against resistance. While the others raped him, Tritter's other hand kept up a constant motion of soft, almost caressing touches that turned House's stomach, and made him desperate to pull away, to escape the sickening gentleness of Tritter's touch – but he couldn't._

_And that was the point, wasn't it? _

_Tritter wanted to reinforce the fact that above all, he was the one in control. If he wanted to violently assault House until he passed out from sheer agony; or if he wanted to touch him with the gentle caress of a lover – either way, there was _nothing_ that House could do to prevent it._

_In this devastating moment – Tritter _owned_ him._

_A shudder passed through House's taut, tense shoulders as Tritter ran an unsettlingly gentle hand through his hair, leaning in close to whisper in his ear, too soft for his friends to hear his words._

"_You're never gonna be the same after this, House," he sneered. "_Never_. You're gonna think twice before you treat your next patient like shit – because from now on, you're always gonna have to wonder…what if I'm screwing the wrong person over again? What if _this_ person's gonna make me pay for my general stupidity and arrogance – like _Michael Tritter_ did?"_

_The detective's cold, triumphant laugh sent an icy shiver down House's spine, as he went on, "You think you're so special, House? So brilliant and gifted and utterly irreplaceable that you can get away with anything you want?" _

_House tried at first to focus on those words, thinking that it would help to distract him from the searing agony that was being inflicted upon him – but he soon realized that Tritter's poisonous words were as bad as the actual rape. Tritter's voice hardened, a steely whisper that House felt against his ear, harsh words that felt like truth in that moment, punctuating the physical brutality that was taking place at the same time._

"_You're _nothing_, House…nothing but a worthless ass for me and my boys to use until we get bored. If you're lucky, maybe we'll let you live…" Tritter shrugged, and House could feel his cruel smile as he added, "…but we'll most likely just throw you away when we're done. Like the garbage you are. You're a useless failure of a human being, House. You don't care about anyone, and I guess you think that makes you strong…like no one can get to you…" _

_Tritter's hand slid down House's side in a softly invasive touch, and the sadistic cop laughed softly when his captive flinched under his touch, but dared not attempt to pull away. Tritter waited in silence as the man raping House reached his completion with a brutal thrust that left the helpless doctor choking back a strangled cry of agony, before continuing in a soft, vicious whisper._

"_How's that working out for ya?"_

_He was quiet for a few moments, stroking his fingertips idly over House's exposed body, waiting while the next man positioned himself behind him. Once the assault had begun, Tritter continued, a never-ending stream of soft savagery pouring from his lips, compounding House's humiliation and pain._

"_See, the thing about not caring about anybody," Tritter pointed out thoughtfully, "is that, usually – that means that no one cares about _you_." He paused, allowing his words to sink in, before asking in a nasty, taunting voice, "You think anybody's looking for you, House? You think anybody's even sparing a thought to wonder what _you're_ doing tonight? What do you think they'd think if they knew?" His voice lowered to a whisper of dark satin as he added, "How many of them do you think would feel sorry for you – and how many do you think would laugh – 'cause they know you've had it coming? A man like you hasn't got that many friends – do you, House?"_

_House tried to shut out the cruel diatribe, the endless physical agony – but there was nothing else. He was grateful for the fact that his face was to the floor, not allowing Tritter or the others to see the bitter tears of degradation and agony that filled his eyes._

_And then, even that small mercy was stripped from him._

_Tritter jerked his head up by the belt around his throat, choking him slightly as he demanded, "Look at me. Hey – look at me, House."_

_House's eyes were closed, and he wanted to keep them that way – but he knew better than to resist at this point. Reluctantly he opened his eyes, to find himself inches from Tritter's ice blue eyes, smiling at him in a cool, appraising way. Utterly calm, the detective raised a hand to gently cup House's cheek, tilting his head slightly upward, and House suppressed the urge to jerk away from the touch. He knew that if he did, Tritter would only make things worse for him._

"_Good…good boy," Tritter murmured, his soothing tone of voice in brutal contrast to the actions taking place around him, at his command. "I want you to see _me_ – while he's screwing you." Tritter's smile twisted into an ironic smirk as he continued, "I want you to get it through your head – just exactly who it is that's doing this to you. Not him…" He gestured dismissively with one hand toward the man behind House. "Not any of these guys – but _me_. Yeah, it might be his dick up your ass," he sneered, keeping his voice low so that only House could hear him, "but it's me that's calling the shots. They're just convenient, hired help. And _you – you're_ nothing, House – nothing but a pathetic little bitch – and I _own_ your ass…" Tritter paused, glancing over House's shoulder at the laughing, jeering men waiting their turn to molest him again, before leaning in close to add, "…because I own _theirs_. You're mine, House. And you'd better get that through your head if you expect to come out of this alive…"_

_In that moment – House wasn't sure that he wanted to._

After retrieving the gun from the hall, Wilson closed the door firmly behind him, tossing the metal box onto the chair beside the table, as he glanced quickly around the room. It looked as if a tornado had torn through it, upending furniture, scattering clothing and other personal belongings around the room. The lamp that had sat on the nightstand now lay in two pieces on the floor against the far wall. The whimpering he had heard in the hallway seemed to have vanished when he entered the room.

House was nowhere to be seen.

Wilson's heart skipped a beat, and he fought back a rising sense of panic.

_I was just in the hall…I was within sight of the door the whole time! There's no way anyone could have gotten in…or out…without my seeing them…right?_ He cringed at the memory of the events that had transpired in the hall, closing his eyes momentarily as he let out a heavy sigh. _Or that _would _have been true, if you hadn't spent all that time flirting-with-slash-terrorizing that young lady in the hallway…stupid, stupid…_

"House?" he called out, crossing the room and checking between the beds, then in the space between the second bed and the wall. "House? Where are you?"

As he spoke his friend's name, he heard a soft scuffling sound, and it took him a moment to place the sound. It was coming from the bathroom, the door of which was cracked open. Wilson could see that the bathroom light was turned off. Apparently, House had found the darkest, most inconspicuous corner in which to hide, at the first sound of Wilson's entrance.

Wilson lowered his voice as he slowly approached the bathroom door. "House…it's just me…it's Wilson…okay? I'm not gonna…not gonna hurt you, House…" He stumbled over the words, his voice breaking slightly. "It's all right…it's all right…"

Cautiously, he pushed the bathroom door open. To his mingled relief and sorrow, he could just barely make out the distorted form of his friend, huddled against the wall under the sink. House didn't move or speak as Wilson edged nearer, reaching out a hand toward the light switch.

"I'm…gonna turn on the light, House. Okay? I'm just gonna…turn this on…"

Wilson took a deep breath and flipped the switch, and House flinched back against the wall before lowering his head into his arms, folded across his knees. As Wilson drew near, he could hear that House was whispering something under his breath, though he could not quite make out the words.

Crouching in front of House, Wilson reached out a cautious hand to rest on House's trembling fist. "House…it's okay," he said in a soft voice barely over a whisper. "You're okay. Can you look at me, House? Hey…look at me…"

To his dismay, House flinched at those words, drawing back further, raising his head slightly, just enough to allow Wilson to hear what it was that he was whispering. What he heard made the younger man's heart lurch with horrified sympathy.

"Please…please, don't…please…" The broken sound of House's voice made Wilson feel as if _he_ was breaking, too.

"House…it's all right," he repeated softly, his voice trembling, cracking over the words as he fought back tears. He gently squeezed House's hand. "It's okay…it's okay…"

Holding onto his hand, Wilson edged nearer, cautiously placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. House tensed, but did not pull away, his head bowed, his eyes tightly shut. Wilson placed a firm but gentle hand under House's chin, lifting his head and turning it towards him.

"House…open your eyes," he ordered quietly. "Come on, House…look at me…"

House choked back a sob of despair as he obeyed, reluctantly raising his eyes to Wilson's. Wilson was stunned by the utter dread he saw in House's eyes, and realized with dismay that in his confused state, House had genuinely expected to see someone else crouched in front of him. Wilson swallowed hard, feeling a fresh wave of fury pass over him, but he fought it back. He had to be there for House right now; Tritter and his men could wait.

"It's okay," Wilson whispered. "It's just me…House…"

As Wilson waited patiently, House frowned, shaking his head slightly, seemingly bewildered as he studied his friend's face as if he had never seen it before.

"It's just me," Wilson repeated, seeing that House was on the verge of coming out of the flashback, and trying to ease him out of it as gently as possible. "It's me, Wilson…okay? Can you see me, House? Do you know who I am?"

House was silent for a moment, staring at him, before Wilson finally saw the dawning of recognition in his expression…swiftly followed by a crestfallen look of humiliation and self-disgust. House lowered his head again, hiding his face with a heavy sigh, gasping for breath as he struggled to recover.

"I'm sorry," he muttered breathlessly as Wilson slid across the linoleum to sit beside him, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. "I'm sorry…I…I thought…I didn't mean to…"

"House," Wilson interrupted, waiting until House looked reluctantly up at him to add in a meaningful and utterly gentle voice, "shut up."

As far as he was concerned, House had nothing for which to apologize, and the fact that the older man felt that he needed to do so only served to increase Wilson's anger toward the men who had so devastated and changed him.

House sighed again, unable to bring himself to return Wilson's smile. "I guess…" he went on, his voice still apologetic. "…I guess…the alone-time thing wasn't such a good idea after all."

"It's okay, House," Wilson assured him. "Really. Flashbacks are pretty much part of the package. I know that, okay? Nothing to apologize for."

House nodded, though he still seemed unconvinced. "It's just…um…" he hesitated, grimacing at the weakness he was about to reveal as he added, "…they're…they're getting worse…"

"It's only been one day," Wilson pointed out. "It's probably normal, House." But his

encouraging smile faded into an expression of worry, as House had confirmed what he had already suspected. Each flashback seemed more severe, with more damage – both physical and emotional – left in its wake. He knew something he dared not tell his friend – not yet. House was not ready to face it, but Wilson knew.

House was going to have to talk to a professional about this.

For the moment, Wilson settled for a legitimate distraction. "We need to pack our stuff up," he informed House quietly. "Find another hotel."

"Why's that?" House asked, a single brow raised in curiosity as he looked up at his friend.

"Because…well…somebody saw me in the hallway…er…with the gun…"

"Oh…Wilson, you're an idiot," House groaned, rolling his eyes and leaning his head back against the tile wall dramatically – and just a little too hard. His expression not changing, he added as an afterthought, "Ow."

Wilson got to his feet, holding out a hand to House with an expectant smile. The older man grudgingly accepted it, allowing Wilson to pull him to his feet.

They walked back into the main room, and Wilson winced as he took in the sight once more.

"So…where's your cane?" he asked uncertainly.

"Not sure." House's voice was sheepish. "I, uh…kind of threw it…_through_ the lamp…"

"Poor innocent lamp," Wilson remarked, glancing once more at the damaged lamp on the floor.

"Don't feel _too_ sorry for it," House shrugged. "It's just lucky _you_ took the gun."

Wilson let out a quiet chuckle in response to House's weak attempt at a joke, but the laughter soon faded into dark concern.

_Yeah…yeah, it _is_ a lucky thing that I took it…_

His mind replayed the scene in the hall, only this time with the sound of a gunshot drawing him back to his room, and he shuddered at the thought of what could have happened. He knew it was normal for someone in House's position to experience violently unstable emotions, knew that the flashbacks, the nightmares – all were normal.

But House had never been able to deal with _ordinary_ emotions all that well to begin with; and Wilson was terrified that this ultimate horror, beyond anything he wanted to try to imagine, might prove to be too much for his friend to process.

_If we could just get to a place where he feels safe…if we could just escape…_

But Tritter's resources were better than theirs, and Wilson knew that if the man wanted to, he could track them down.

And Wilson was pretty sure that Tritter would want to.

As they began to pack up their belongings, Wilson's gaze drifted once more toward the gun, lying on the table beside its box – and he decided that despite the inconveniences it had caused them thus far, it had been a good investment. He would do whatever it took to keep House safe.

And he was beginning to think that that commitment would take him past lines he'd never thought he'd cross.


	17. Chapter 17

"Okay, is that everything

"Okay, is that everything?"

Twenty minutes later, Wilson stood with one hand on the door of the hotel room, and both duffel bags in the other. He'd safely stowed the metal gunbox with the extra bullets in his own bag.

The gun itself was tucked into the waistband of his pants.

House eyed it as Wilson turned to face the room, scanning it once more to be sure there was nothing they had left behind.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I think that's…absolutely everything we could possibly need. And then some." He nodded his head toward Wilson's waist.

"We _do_ need the gun, House," Wilson reiterated, sounding tired and a bit impatient with the argument they'd been having on and off since he'd purchased the weapon. "When you're going up against someone who's already got one, and is out to kill you…"

"When you're going up against someone who's _trained_ to kill you with their pinky…" House cut in, "it's probably better not to have something they can turn against you. I hate to say it, Wilson, but that's what's likely to happen to you or me." He paused, adding after a moment's consideration. "Especially you."

"Hey!" Wilson protested, giving House an indignant glance over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he added, "I've taken a class! I know how to shoot a gun."

House met his eyes with a level gaze, his expression solemn. "At a person?"

Wilson paused. Holding House's gaze intently, he responded, his voice soft and certain, "At a person who's trying to hurt _you_."

Somehow, the promise in the younger man's words made House feel safer, despite his doubts about Wilson's skill in actually _using_ the weapon he had purchased. He opened his mouth to respond, then hesitated a moment, lowering his gaze.

Before he could speak, a quick knocking sound made both men jump, their eyes suddenly riveted on the door.

They stood there for a moment in tense silence, before their eyes met in a silent, anxious exchange – Wilson's gaze full of guarded apprehension, and House's nearly panicked. Cautiously, Wilson moved closer to the door, looking through the peephole. His heartbeat quickened when he saw that there was no one there.

At least – no one standing within viewing range of the peephole.

"Who is it?" House asked in a stage whisper, his voice low and a little _too_ calm when Wilson turned to look at him again. Despite his efforts, he was unable to conceal the look of dread in his wide blue eyes. He shook his head, backing away a couple of steps when he remembered, "No one knows we're here!"

Wilson immediately noticed the impending panic descending upon his friend, and turned to focus his attention on House. He moved toward him, gently gripping his arms in an attempt to steady him.

"House…" he said in what he hoped was a calm, soothing tone, "…you have to calm down. It might be the maid. It might be…" Unable to think of any other comforting options that House would find plausible, Wilson just shook his head as he tried again. "We don't have any idea _who_ it is. But panicking is not going to help anything. All right?"

As Wilson tried to calm him, House nodded absently, swallowing hard as he glanced back toward the door, his eyes reluctantly drawn past Wilson's intent gaze, to the source of his rising fears.

"_House_!"

House's gaze darted back to Wilson, his breath shallow. He shook his head, whispering, "Wilson…I…I can't…"

"Go in the bathroom," Wilson advised. "Lock the door. I'll…I'll take care of this, and…and let you know when it's safe."

The idea of hiding himself away in the bathroom while Wilson dealt alone with whatever threat was at the door seemed so ludicrous to House, in spite of his fears, that he could not help but give his friend a doubtful look, his eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Yeah, 'cause that way, I'll live a whole fifteen seconds longer."

"I've got the gun, and it's our best chance right now." Wilson paused a moment before rolling his eyes in exasperation and adding, "What, you've got a better idea?"

"Hide under the beds and don't answer the door and hope they go away?" House's response was sarcastic and self-deprecating, mocking his own fears, and after a moment he sighed in resignation, aware that their options were severely limited.

"Right. Bathroom."

Wilson watched him make his way across the room, closing the bathroom door behind him. When he heard the quiet _snick_ of the lock falling into place, he turned his attention back to the door. His hand rested uncomfortably on the handle of the gun in his waistband, and he hesitated before pulling it out. Holding the gun in front of him for a moment, he studied it – trying to convince himself of what he already knew to be true.

If it was Tritter outside that door, then it really _was_ their only chance at the moment.

And Tritter was, unfortunately, the most likely option. No one else knew where they were. Despite his reassurances to House, Wilson knew that it was too late in the evening for it to be the maid. The only reason for anyone to be knocking on their door was something that he did not want to consider – but had to.

They couldn't call the police, obviously; couldn't call anyone else, and risk getting them involved in a dangerous situation bigger than themselves. They could wait a while and hope that whoever was outside just went away – but if it was Tritter and his men, they could easily break the door down, or just wait outside for them to come out.

Eventually, they would _have_ to.

The only option was to face the threat head on – no matter how little chance they had of actually surviving such an encounter.

Wilson aimed the gun in front of him, silently cursing the visible tremor in his right hand. He readied himself to fire, deciding that if it _was_ Tritter outside, he would not wait to see what the other man would do. He would shoot first, ask questions _never_.

Cautiously, he reached for the knob, hesitating just a moment before flinging the door open, taking a step back and aiming his weapon with both hands – toward the empty hallway. He frowned, suspicious – waiting – but no one appeared from around the corner. Nothing happened at all.

He considered for a moment, his heart racing, before stepping cautiously out into the hall, the gun still ready in his hand as he looked in either direction for any sign of the person who had knocked.

The hallway was empty.

With a puzzled expression on his face, Wilson went back into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Just as he turned his back on the door to tell House that it seemed to be, for the moment, safe, he noticed something on the floor. It was a tiny rectangular white piece of paper – a business card.

The print on the front read "Jenna Leander – Private Investigator" and listed an address and telephone number for a detective agency. When Wilson turned the card over, he found a handwritten note on the back. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place as he read it, and his fears were relieved.

The note read, "I meant what I said about not calling the police. I used my excellent detective skills to determine that you and your friend might be in need of my services. If I'm right, call me – but leave the gun at home, please! – Jenna Leander"

Ah. The woman he had met earlier.

He couldn't blame her for just leaving her card and running; she was probably still uncertain as to whether or not he was dangerous. Considering that, it was especially kind of her to volunteer to help**.**

Wilson smiled, appreciating the wry humor in the words she had written. He was surprised that the young woman was a private investigator. She hadn't exactly seemed like the type – not that he was sure what he thought "the type" should look like. His expression became pensive as he wondered if there was anything she could do to help them. They couldn't go to the authorities – not yet, anyway – but perhaps if they could gather some kind of evidence…

"House!" he called out as he crossed the room. "It's safe!"

House emerged from the bathroom looking apprehensive. He seemed embarrassed by the fact that he had been reduced to hiding from shadows. Before he could ask any questions, Wilson handed the card to him with a reassuring smile, watching his expression as he read the words on the back of the card.

House looked up at him, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in the barest beginnings of a smirk. "One hour in a hotel room and you've already managed to find a hooker? You're more talented than I thought."

"What? No! Give me that," Wilson took the card from his hand and turned it over before giving it back. "See? Jenna Leander, PI." He paused, before adding, "So…I'm thinking it might be safe to stay here, after all."

"With a PI sniffing around?" House snorted. "I don't think so. Let's go."

There was a thoughtful frown on Wilson's face. An idea was forming in his mind, one that might help them find some solid evidence against Tritter, and maybe bring him to justice, but it involved telling another person what had happened to House, and a stranger at that.

He suspected that House would never go for it; better not to let him know what he was thinking.

"You better not even be thinking about involving this chick," House said, uncannily honing in on Wilson's thoughts as usual. "I don't care _how_ hot she is…"

"I never said she was hot…"

House smiled knowingly. "Oh, but you're not saying she's _not_ hot…which tells me that she _is_ hot…which is all the more reason for us to stay away." He scoffed quietly at Wilson's defensive, questioning look. "If we end up on the run from the law, the last thing we need is the next ex-Mrs.-Wilson along for the ride."

"Um…House…hate to mess with this cute little theory you're formulating, but…I think she was more terrified of me than anything. And I don't even know her. It's not like there's a chance of anything like that happening…"

House studied Wilson's face for a long moment. "Oh, God," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "You like her. How much did you tell her?" But when his eyes met Wilson's, the younger man could clearly see the very serious fear masked by his light, mocking tone.

"_Nothing_," he assured his friend. He hesitated before adding, "I…didn't…talk to her. She just left the card and ran, before I could brandish a gun in her face again and drag her into our hotel room." As he spoke, he reached over and petulantly snatched the card from House's hands, tucking it safely away in his pocket.

House eyed that pocket suspiciously, before giving Wilson a pointed, warning look. "We're leaving. Now. And you're _not_ calling her."

"Who said anything about calling her?" Wilson blustered, exasperated – and much more defensive than he would have been if he had not been considering calling her. He crossed the room to the door again and picked up their bags. "Come on," he said before House could continue the discussion. "Let's get out of here."

Wilson was awakened the next morning – in their new hotel room – by the ringing of his cell phone. He groaned as he pushed back the blankets. He glanced at the screen for a moment, before answering, reading the time – 10:30am – and the name of the caller.

It was Cuddy.

Blinking sleepily, Wilson cleared his throat and attempted to answer the phone sounding somewhat human. "Hullo?" Despite his efforts, his exhausted voice sounded hoarse and slightly slurred.

Neither he nor House had slept much the night before.

The older man had been plagued by nightmares that had awakened him – and Wilson – every thirty minutes or so. Each time, Wilson gently tried to focus House's attention on the reality of here and now – doing his best to pull him out of the dark memories clawing at his mind and spirit and dragging him back into Tritter's cruel hands.

After about ten minutes, House would come out of it, remembering where he was and that he was safe. He would go back to sleep, soothed by Wilson's reassuring words and tentative, cautious touch.

Thirty minutes later the cycle would begin again.

Finally House slept, too exhausted to wake up when the phone rang. Wilson walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him in consideration for his friend, as he listened to Cuddy's voice on the other line.

"Morning. Are you two still sleeping? There's no answer on the home phone. You were both staying at House's place, right?"

"Not anymore."

Wilson sighed, his voice becoming steadier and more alert as he tried to think of a way to explain what had happened, without revealing the identity of House's attacker. After a moment's consideration, he decided to stay as close to the actual truth as possible. It would make it both more believable, and easier to keep up with later.

"When we got there, his bike was parked outside his house," he explained. "He thinks the attackers must have left it there as a warning. He was scared to go inside, and…and he didn't want to take a chance that someone might follow us to my house, so…we're at a hotel."

Cuddy's voice was hushed and worried. "Wilson – that's scary. How do they know where he lives?"

"Might have caught a look in his wallet?" Wilson suggested, thinking quickly. "I'm not sure."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm thinking we need to contact the authorities," Cuddy declared, concern evident in her tone. "If these creeps are threatening him – coming to his house – then I don't care _what_ House thinks, he needs protection! He won't be safe until these guys are off the streets for good!"

Sleepily, Wilson considered for a moment, biting his lip as he tried to think of a way to keep Cuddy from calling the authorities without revealing House's secret – and came up blank.

The best he could do was stall for time.

"Wilson?" Cuddy sounded troubled by his extended silence.

He drew in a deep, shaky breath, letting it out in a sigh as he replied, "I'm here. Um – I think we need to talk. Can you come over here?"

He could hear the puzzled frown on Cuddy's face as she replied slowly, "Okay. What is it?"

"We'll talk when you get here. Can you come by around noonish? House is still asleep."

"Sure," Cuddy replied. "I'll see you then."

After Wilson hung up the phone, he stood there for a moment, going over options in his mind. He was beginning to think that it would be wise to let Cuddy in on the secret; he was certain that unless she knew that House's attacker was a cop, she would be adamant about calling the police.

The problem was – she might be adamant about it even if she _did_ know.

Perhaps she would be right; perhaps Tritter did not have as much power on the police force as House seemed to think he did. Perhaps if they called the police and asked to speak to someone with a higher status than Tritter's, they might be able to prove their case and bring the man to justice.

Or perhaps, Tritter's superiors would turn a blind eye to their allegations – and Tritter would come after House with a renewed vengeance.

That was not a risk Wilson was willing to take.

Still, they had to tell Cuddy _something_. The question was – what?

"House," he said, approaching his friend's bed and gently shaking his shoulder. "Come on, buddy, time to wake up."

After a moment, House looked up at him through bleary, fearful eyes. The relief on his face when he saw Wilson was heartbreaking. "What…what's up?" he mumbled sleepily, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. "It's still early…what's goin' on?"

"Gotta get up and get dressed. Cuddy's coming over in an hour," he explained. He hesitated a moment, holding House's gaze with a grim resignation as he added, "We need to talk – about what we're going to tell her."


	18. Chapter 18

"No

"No. We're not telling her."

Wilson sighed deeply as he buttoned his shirt, glancing up at House through troubled eyes. "If we don't tell her, she's going to insist on calling the police."

"Yeah, because somebody had to open his big mouth about the motorcycle," House grumbled from where he sat on the edge of his bed, already fully dressed and ready for Cuddy's visit. "If she didn't have a reason to think there's still a threat, she'd leave me alone about it."

"Okay, _how_ long have you known her?" Wilson raised a single brow in House's direction. "And there _is _still a threat."

"She didn't have to know that." House's voice was barely over a whisper as he looked away, his gaze focused on the digital clock on the nightstand, and its silent countdown to Cuddy's arrival. "The less anyone knows about this, the better."

Wilson hesitated, his lips parted to speak for a long moment before he finally let the words come out.

"You…can't keep _everything_ a secret…forever. I know you want to. But…if you want to be able to stop him…if you want to be able to feel safe, like…_ever_…there are gonna be _some_ people who are gonna have to hear about it, right?"

House flinched, but responded without hesitation. "Wrong." Wilson's silence pushed him to reconsider until he rolled his eyes and admitted, "Okay, maybe right. A little. Eventually. But…_Cuddy_ is not one of those people."

"She's your friend, House. She's probably the best one you've got, present company excluded, of course." Wilson allowed himself a teasing smirk in House's direction.

House just barely returned it, meeting Wilson's eyes for only an instant. "Of course."

"Seriously. She's 100 on your side in this, House. She'd do anything in her power to protect you."

"I know." House's voice was quiet, intent. "That's why she can't know." He looked up at Wilson, who was frowning slightly in confusion. "She won't be okay with just letting this go. She'll insist on going after Tritter, trying to bring him down. And – that's not something we can do right now. I'm not sure that's something we can do, _ever_."

Wilson conceded with a nod, trying not to think about how deeply intimidated House was by the sadistic detective. Tritter's power seemed to have become magnified in House's eyes, until the once-confident diagnostician now saw his attacker in every dark corner, afraid to speak to the wrong person for fear of incurring his wrath.

But now was not the right time to deal with that issue – not while Tritter's power actually _was_ still a significant threat to them.

"The thing is, though," Wilson continued, keeping his voice even and calm, not wanting to upset House any further, "she'll want to call the police if she doesn't know a cop did this to you. She won't—doesn't—understand why you're refusing. She – she may call them anyway, regardless of what you want to do. You know Cuddy."

House looked up, alarmed. "She can't," he insisted, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I don't _have _to report this. That's the law."

"She wouldn't be calling as your doctor, House. She'd be calling as your friend."

House was quiet for so long that Wilson wasn't sure he was going to say anything. He finally spoke again, his voice so soft that Wilson barely caught the words.

"He told me not to call the police."

Wilson set his hairbrush down on the dresser, turning to face his friend. He crossed the room to sit down beside House on the bed, careful not to reach out toward him. Everything about House's demeanor at the moment screamed, _Don't touch me!_ His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his head bowed and turned away from Wilson; he shook visibly as he struggled with the memories Wilson was not sure he wanted to share.

His voice soft and soothing, Wilson offered what little reassurance he could. "Then we won't call them. We have to tell Cuddy what's going on, though. We'll somehow make her understand why we _can't_ tell the police. Okay?"

"Can't tell _anyone_," a bewildered House amended, shaking his head as he let out a shaky sigh. "_You're_ not supposed to know. I wasn't supposed to…to tell anybody, and yet somehow…you know, and…and she's gonna know, and…"

Wilson struggled to suppress the rage building in him at the thought of the threats Tritter had used to keep House under his control. "So…what? Did he expect you to just lie there and bleed to death? Not tell anybody you were attacked? Did he think that no one would find out…?"

"Not about…the…not that it happened," House clarified. "He…he expected that to be known. I think he…I think he _wanted_ it to be known." A bitter smile crossed House's lips as he whispered, "Just adds to the humiliation. No, he just…just didn't want his name brought into it. But…it's a little late for that, isn't it?"

Wilson was quiet, considering. Finally, honestly, he agreed. "Yeah. It kind of is."

House let out a deep, shaky breath, nodding once as he conceded defeat in this particular battle. He gave Wilson a sideways look, biting his lower lip for a moment before admitting, "I…I can't tell her. I just…can't. Will you…?"

"Of course."

Wilson agreed without hesitation, reaching out a hand to touch House's shoulder, though not allowing it to linger too long. He had never been quite sure of the physical boundaries in their relationship – and now, was less sure than ever.

"Do you want me to…to tell her somewhere else? Like…outside, or…?"

"No, I wanna be there," House explained. "I don't trust you to convince her of our point. You suck at Cuddy-negotiation."

Wilson smiled, unoffended by the blunt assessment of his dubious skills. "No, if there's anyone who knows how to win an argument with Cuddy, he's sitting in this room – and he's not me."

Cuddy's knock at the door brought their conversation to a close, and Wilson rose from the bed to let her in.

"Good morning, Dr. Cuddy."

"Hey."

She greeted Wilson with a smile that was a little too bright. Her eyes glistened suspiciously as she hesitated just a moment, before surprising him with a hug. Somehow the hug felt natural, given the circumstances, and Wilson returned it, holding her tightly for a few moments. He cleared his throat awkwardly when she released him, attempting to dislodge the strange knot that seemed to have formed there.

Still smiling, Cuddy turned her attention toward House. Her unusually affectionate greeting for Wilson had given him warning, and he gingerly returned her smile as she put her arms around him and drew him close. When he saw the alarm in House's eyes, Wilson almost moved to stop her – but then, the older man relaxed into the embrace with a sigh of acceptance, raising his own arms to awkwardly return Cuddy's hug.

"How're you holding up?" Cuddy whispered against his ear as she drew back, looking into his eyes with concern.

House gave her a half-smile and a little shrug. "Mostly not," he admitted quietly. "But it'll get better."

An awkward silence followed the meaningless words. Wilson had seen enough of House's trauma over the past few days, and the way it was increasing, to wonder if House really believed he would get better at all. For her part, Cuddy hoped that time would ease not only his physical injuries, but his emotional ones as well. She knew better than to expect miracles – especially with someone as emotionally stunted as House.

"So," Cuddy broke the silence as she sat down on the bed beside House. "You guys…wanted to tell me something?"

Wilson took a deep breath as he sat down slowly on the edge of the other bed. His dark eyes were apprehensive as he steeled himself for the difficult conversation.

After an interminable moment, Wilson confessed slowly, "There's…something we haven't told you yet. About…what happened."

"I'd…guess there's quite a bit you haven't told me," Cuddy pointed out cautiously. "And that's fine. I…sort of expected…"

"No, this is…this is something you need to hear," Wilson insisted.

Cuddy glanced uncertainly toward House, who was staring down at his knees, his jaw working with some repressed emotion, the fingers of his left hand tapping nervously on his thigh. His obvious discomfort made her want to do something to offer him comfort, even if she knew he would likely refuse it. In an impulsive gesture, she reached out and closed her hand over his, stilling his fidgeting hand.

House looked at her in surprise.

Cuddy shrugged casually as she replied to his unspoken question. "Your fidgeting was bugging me."

House rolled his eyes in exaggerated annoyance, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward in reluctant amusement. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll stop." He tried to pull his hand away, surprised again when she did not release it.

Casually, Cuddy shrugged again, not looking at him. "Don't trust you." She held her breath, hoping that by some insane chance that he might _not_ jerk his hand away.

To her pleased surprise, House turned his hand slightly to clasp hers back. At Wilson's wide-eyed look of surprised suspicion, House gave him an exaggerated wink.

"Told you she was easy. Let's try to drag this out to an hour. That oughta be long enough to get to third base."

Cuddy froze, stunned by the joke, more inappropriate now than ever before. Under any other circumstances, it would not have surprised her; now, however, she could hardly believe that House was _joking_ about anything remotely related to sex. As she studied his face, however, she saw the lost look in his eyes, unmasked by the smirk on his lips; all at once she recognized the defense mechanism for what it was, and felt her heart break a little for House – so desperate to conceal the vulnerability that was already so obvious to both her and Wilson.

Playing along, she let out a soft, scoffing sound. "Yeah…_this_ is all the action you'll be getting tonight." She returned her attention to Wilson. "So…what is it that you have to tell me?"

He was staring at their joined hands, unfocused, distracted by the unusual display of affection.

"Wilson?" Cuddy waited until he looked into her eyes. "What is this about?"

"Oh…um…the…identity…of House's attackers," he clarified at last. "See, the thing is…he…he knows them. At least – one of them."

"Well, that's…that's good, right?" she suggested, uncertain because of the expressions on their faces as she looked rapidly between House and Wilson. "That means we can call the police, get them locked up…"

"No, we can't call the police," House spoke without looking at her, his voice carefully even, low to disguise its tremor.

"Why not?" When House made no attempt to answer, she turned her questioning gaze to Wilson. "What is it? What am I missing, here?"

"We…can't call the police, because…the men who did this…" Wilson stumbled over the words, dark eyes locked onto Cuddy's, gauging her reaction as he finished, "…they…they _are_ the police. At least…one of them…"

A weighted silence fell over the room as the two men waited for Cuddy to put the pieces together. Neither wanted to tell her outright – House because he had never wanted to tell her at all, and in fact would just as soon say as little about the entire ordeal as possible; and Wilson because telling her when he knew that House didn't want her to know still felt like a betrayal.

Cuddy was an intelligent woman; she would figure it out.

They didn't have to wait long.

Gradual understanding dawned on her face, and she looked at Wilson in horror, her hand tightening on House's. "The one…House knows," she surmised. "That's the 'one'…who _is_ the police…"

Wilson nodded silently, watching her face closely.

That last clarification was all Cuddy needed. Her eyes narrowed in outraged fury, her hand around House's becoming almost painful in her anger. "I'll kill him," she whispered, shaking her head slightly as she rose to her feet. "He's gonna pay for this; there is no way that I'm gonna just sit here and _let_ him…"

Her words broke off abruptly as House used their joined hands to jerk her back down to a sitting position. Stunned, she saw looked at House to see him shaking his head, not looking at her.

"No," he said with a forced calm. "That's a bad plan, because of the 'you getting killed instead of him', and then the 'him coming after us because of you', and…just no. Bad plan."

Cuddy studied his face for a long moment, taking in the tension of his jaw, the nervous working of his throat. His hand tightened around hers, as if desperate to hold her there, and she looked back and forth between House and Wilson, frowning.

"We've gotta turn him in, guys," she said, one eyebrow raised. "He's a cop, yeah…but there are higher up cops than him. If we turn him in, with your testimony, House…we should be able to get him put away. He'd be in _jail_." She paused, bewildered as neither man seemed inclined to agree with her logic. "Right? It'd be over. He wouldn't be a threat anymore."

House opened his mouth to respond, but could not seem to make the words come out.

Wilson spoke for him. "Or…" he suggested cautiously, "…his superiors who've worked with him for the past decade or so and know his brilliant track record of arrests and convictions choose to believe him over the recently arrested drug addict. Then Tritter decides to come back and make sure this particular accusation…never surfaces again."

"It's my word against his," House pointed out softly. "No one's gonna believe…"

"But…there's DNA evidence!" Cuddy objected. "Right?" She looked to Wilson.

House looked up sharply in Wilson's direction.

The younger man could not hold his gaze, clearing his throat awkwardly before admitting, "Yes, there's…some evidence…from the attack. But…"

"It's not Tritter's." House's eyes were focused on his lap again, his hand in Cuddy's trembling as he continued in an unsteady voice, "He…he used a…a condom…" His voice lowered to a whisper as he finished, his eyes closing in shame. "Said he didn't wanna…didn't wanna…catch anything…"

The words, spoken in a tone of such dejected humiliation, infuriated Cuddy more than anything else that had been said so far. Despite his obvious emotional issues, she had always thought of House as strong, sharp—his defenses nearly impenetrable.

The thought that Tritter had managed to make him feel so low, so ashamed and…and _dirty_…

"He can't just get away with this," she whispered, shaking her head, blinking away tears. "We have to do _something_."

"There isn't anything we _can_ do," House wearily replied, bringing the emotion in his voice back under control. "I can just…keep my mouth shut. And…and he'll leave me alone. And that's the end of it."

But it wasn't the end of it, not by a long shot – and all three of them knew it. Cuddy and Wilson exchanged a worried glance. For once, House didn't catch it. Tritter was not likely to just let it go; the motorcycle in House's parking spot was proof of that. Now that the detective had asserted his dominance, he would almost certainly do whatever he could to maintain it.

As long as Tritter was free – House was in danger.

Clearing his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the suggestion he was about to make – tantamount to a small betrayal in his own eyes – Wilson took a deep breath. "There…is _one_ thing…I was thinking about…"

House and Cuddy both looked up at him, one with suspicion, the other with curiosity. Without a word, Wilson took Jenna's business card from his pocket and held it out for Cuddy. As House recognized the card, he reached out to snatch it away, but Cuddy was faster, standing and turning away from House, effectively keeping him from taking it.

"No!" he snapped, glaring at Wilson as he jerked Cuddy back down onto the bed beside him and reached again for the card. "Wilson, I told you…"

"Yeah. I don't always listen well." Wilson shrugged, though his expression was vaguely repentant.

Cuddy held the card out of reach as she read it, her right hand still clasped in House's, wrestling with it to hold him far enough away that he couldn't reach the card. When she gave Wilson a curious look, he rose to his feet long enough to rescue the card and return it to his pocket. Cuddy turned back to face him, waiting expectantly.

"I met her in the…_other _hotel. Don't ask," he advised, when Cuddy looked as if she was about to. "She seemed to be scared of us…"

"Scared of _you_…" House muttered. "Wilson…don't do this. I didn't sign up for this part of the conversation…"

Wilson ignored him for the moment, focusing on Cuddy. "But…she offered to help. And I'm thinking…if we _are_ gonna bring Tritter down somehow, we're gonna need evidence…"

"Evidence of what?" House spat out, defensive and angry in his fear. "It's too late. She can't go back in time and videotape what happened, can she? And there's nothing else…"

"You think this is the first time he's done this?" Cuddy interrupted, her voice soft but compelling as she met House's eyes.

He was silent for a moment, surprised by the question. His mind went back, unbidden to the night of the attack – Tritter's alternatingly gentle and violent hands, never shaking, always in complete control – his soft, soothing voice whispering dark promises in House's ears – never the slightest bit nervous as he had conducted the assault. And then Tritter had calmly sat back and watched the others violate him as well…_enjoying_ it…

House shuddered, his mouth dry. He covered his face with his free hand, drawing in a shaky breath before finally replying in a hoarse whisper.

"No…no, this…wasn't his first time…"

"Then there have to be others out there," Wilson reasoned, unable to keep a touch of excitement out of his voice at the prospect of having a means to trap Tritter. "She's a detective. It's what she _does_. If she can find some of them…_one_ of them…House…she could really help us!"

"No," House insisted, his voice quiet and firm. "I…wasn't supposed to say anything. It's…it's bad enough that you two know. Nobody else can know about this…_nobody_."

Silence fell again, and Cuddy sighed, thinking it over. She understood House's fears, knew that getting anyone to believe his story would be challenging, given his history with Tritter, and Tritter's connections on the police force. She also knew that if they did nothing, Tritter would continue to threaten House's emotional and physical well-being. Talking to the PI sounded like a good plan – if she could get House to agree to it.

"Let's…hold off on calling her for now," she suggested.

Wilson frowned. "But…"

"We can talk about it later," Cuddy cut him off with a sharp glance.

She looked at House, sure that he would have picked up on the unspoken exchange. He was staring down at the floor, blinking rapidly, trembling as he wrestled with his fears. She squeezed his hand gently, offering silent reassurance, gratified when he squeezed back, not minding that the force of his grip was almost painful.

Wilson was waiting, watching her for a cue.

"I'm still not sure…about contacting the authorities," Cuddy went on. "I mean…we can't just do nothing about this." She paused, then added gently, "And just because you keep your mouth shut about this, doesn't mean Tritter's gonna just let it go."

"I know," House whispered, hesitating over the words. "But…it's the best shot I've got right now."

"I don't know." Cuddy shook her head. "I'm still not sure…"

House glanced between Wilson and Cuddy, panic rising in his eyes. Wilson just stared at Cuddy, his eyes narrowed slightly.

She was up to something.

"You can't call the cops!" House protested, turning to face her in clear alarm. "Cuddy – _no_!"

She shook her head, smiling reassuringly. "I won't," she promised, pausing before adding, "…on one condition."

His expression became guarded as he tilted his head slightly, regarding her with new suspicion. "And what might that be?"

Raising her voice slightly to address both men, Cuddy replied, "Wilson goes away for an hour or so. Gives us a little bit of time alone."

Wilson raised an eyebrow in her direction, voicing the question evident on House's face. "What for?"

"I don't have to explain myself," Cuddy pointed out, never breaking eye contact with House. "That's my condition."

"Why, Dr. Cuddy." House smirked, though the humor did not quite reach his eye. "I knew you wanted to get me alone, but I never thought you'd be so forward about it." He gave Wilson an exaggerated wink as he added, "Forget third base. I'm sliding this baby all the way home!"

Wilson looked simply appalled, as stunned as Cuddy by House's ill-timed sexual humor – and perhaps not quite grasping the reason behind it as quickly as she had.

"Do we have a deal?" Cuddy asked, acknowledging his joke with a tolerant smile, despite the fact that under the circumstances, the suggestion sickened her.

Wilson opened his mouth to protest, wanting to protect House's privacy, but before he could speak, House gave his answer.

"Sure. Wilson – get lost."

Wilson looked up at him incredulously. "House? Are you…are you _sure_…?"

"Positive. Go."

Wilson rose uncertainly to his feet, looking at the two of them suspiciously. He moved slowly toward the door, turning a few feet away from it to give Cuddy a pensive look. His tone was too pleasant, the sort of courteous tone he usually reserved for colleagues in a professional setting.

"Dr. Cuddy, may I…see you in the hallway for a minute?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Are you sure you know what you're doing

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Wilson demanded in a stage whisper, the moment the door of their hotel room closed behind him and Cuddy.

"Yes." Cuddy's response was simple, confident, and without hesitation.

Wilson was silent for a long moment, staring at her. "Okay. Great!" he remarked at last, with a too-bright smile, throwing one hand up in the air in frustration as he half-turned away from her. His expression sobered as he faced her, hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket slightly, and rephrased, "What _are _you doing?"

"I think I can get through to him, Wilson," Cuddy explained in a gentle, earnest voice, leaning in closer so that he could hear her more clearly. "I think I can get him to let us call the PI you were talking about, and _what_ the hell is _that_?"

Wilson followed her suddenly alarmed gaze downward to the gun, tucked once more into the waistband of his pants, revealed when he had accidentally pushed his jacket back. He felt a momentary sense of self-conscious alarm, before gathering himself, standing a little straighter. "It's a gun," he answered simply, the tone of his voice defying her to say anything about it.

Cuddy was silent, her gaze drifting between his face and the gun for a few tense moments. Then, she nodded in unexpected acceptance. "Good."

Wilson was relieved by her reaction – but he was still incredibly frustrated and confused. Echoing her question, he gestured emphatically toward the hotel room door as he demanded, "And what the hell was _that_?"

"What?" Cuddy frowned, puzzled by the question.

"That…that _thing_ in there with the…with the hugging, and the _hands_, and…and he won't even let me _touch_ him without acting like I'm gonna…gonna…" Wilson's sputtering words came to an abrupt halt, and he raised a hand to press hard against his eyes, as he drew in a shaky breath and let it out slowly in an attempt to regain control over his careening emotions.

Cuddy just watched him, slightly bewildered by his behavior, gradual understanding softening the expression on her face as she began to put together what was bothering him. When Wilson spoke again, his voice was quiet.

"I-I don't know, maybe you're right," he relented, shaking his head, his gaze lowered sadly. He was barely holding back tears. Clearly, the tension of the last few days was getting to him. "He won't talk to _me_ about it, and he seems to be more comfortable with you somehow…even though I'm his best friend, and I'm…I'm really trying, I just…don't know what else to do, and…"

"Hey…" Cuddy's voice was soft, soothing, not unlike the one she had used with House moments earlier. "…Hey, Wilson…look at me…"

He looked up at her, his dark eyes brimming with hurt and confusion, silently pleading for some explanation, some indication of what it was that he was doing wrong.

Cuddy reached out a steadying hand to touch his arm as she reassured him. "He needs a little bit of comfort right now. That's all. That's why he let me hug him, hold his hand…it's just comfort…"

Wilson opened his mouth to protest that _he _had tried to provide comfort, but Cuddy anticipated his argument, continuing firmly, "…and _maybe_…he needs that comfort from someone…who _in no way_ resembles the ones who hurt him."

The look in her eyes was pointed, leading…and after a moment, understanding began to dawn. He sighed, one hand rising to cover his face.

"Someone…who's not a man." Wilson lowered his head again, shaking it in quiet self-disgust. "I'm an idiot. I – I didn't even think…"

"It's all right," Cuddy soothed him, her hand gently stroking up and down his arm. "Wilson…you're doing all you can." She waited until he looked up at her, despairing, to insist, "You can't expect to do this all perfectly. There's no perfect way to deal with this. It's a horrible situation, and all you can do is your best. And that's what your doing."

"Yeah," Wilson sighed wearily, pausing a beat before adding, "and my best _sucks_."

"No." Cuddy shook her head. "It really doesn't. You couldn't have known. It's just…right now, we have no idea what things are going to trigger his memories – his flashbacks – so it's best if he's not touched by a guy. But – he still _needs_ to be touched. He needs to know that not all touch is bad."

"Good luck," Wilson huffed out a humorless laugh. "He didn't know that _before_…"

Cuddy nodded sadly, silently acknowledging the truth of his words. "All we can do is our best," she reiterated softly. "And when it comes to any kind of physical comfort – I think I'm gonna have to handle it for now."

A slow, knowing smile touched Wilson's lips as he met her eyes. "This isn't _all_ about talking him into calling the PI, is it?"

Cuddy shook her head, returning his smile. "No, it's not." She paused a moment before squeezing his arm as she suggested, "Go grab some lunch. I'll call when it's okay for you to come back."

Wilson nodded solemnly, a thoughtful expression on his face. He hesitated a moment before taking the gun from his waistband. "Here," he said, gently taking her hand from his arm and pressing the weapon into it. At her stunned, questioning look, he explained, "If I'm not gonna be here – you'd better hold onto this."

Cuddy closed the door of the room behind her, locking it tight before turning to face House with a warm smile.

He returned it tentatively, still uncertain as to her motives. "So you managed to talk down my guard dog, then." He smirked. "That must have been some feat. I swear, he gets more clingy by the moment…"

"Be nice to Wilson," Cuddy advised softly, her voice gently reproachful. "Don't slam him _too _hard. He's trying."

House's smile faded, and he looked down at his lap. "I know." He was quiet a moment before looking up at her, his trademark smirk back in place. "So what do you want to do with your hour, Mistress Cuddy?" he asked with a lewd look up and down her body. "So many possibilities."

Cuddy ignored the crude comment, moving to the other side of the bed and sitting down, her back braced against the wooden headboard as she swung her legs up onto the mattress and crossed them casually. When he glanced at her questioningly, she tapped her forehead as she winked.

"Headache," she shrugged. "Sorry."

House let out an exaggerated sigh, looking away from her again. "Figures."

"Come here."

House looked up at her sharply, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"Come on," Cuddy gently urged him, patting the spot beside her. "Come up here and talk to me."

"Don't feel much like talking."

But he did pull his left leg up onto the bed, lifting the right after it and scooting backward across the mattress until his back was to the headboard as well, and they were side by side. They sat there in silence for a few moments, neither quite sure what to say, or what was about to happen. Finally, House broke the silence.

"So what's next, Cuddy? What's your brilliant plan to break down my defenses and get Wilson's way about the PI chick?"

Cuddy cringed inwardly, realizing that she should have known better than to think that House _really_ hadn't noticed the looks she and Wilson had exchanged before Wilson had left the room.

"I won't try to talk you into something you don't wanna do," she sighed. "I know I can't. I just…think that you should at least let her look into it. See what kind of evidence she can uncover about Tritter…"

"She doesn't need to uncover anything," House insisted softly, and the fear she heard in his voice was painful to Cuddy. "All that'll do is…is piss him off."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "If she uncovers enough," she pointed out, "then it wouldn't matter _how_ pissed off he gets. He'd go to jail, House. You'd be safe." As she spoke, she reached out and placed her hand over his, running her thumb lightly along the side of his palm.

House didn't pull away, but he didn't look at her either. He shook his head, his voice trembling and haunted. "There's no guarantee. One slip-up – one mistake – Tritter finds out she's investigating him, and he'll come after me. He'll kill her – me – anyone he thinks knows anything about this. He won't let himself get caught, Cuddy. It's…it's no use."

"Hey." Cuddy turned toward him, waiting until he reluctantly looked up at her before going on, holding his gaze firmly, one hand rising to gently cup his cheek as she informed him in a quiet, intent voice of conviction, "He is _not_ as powerful as he made you think he is. And _you_ – you're so much stronger than he's made you feel."

The look in House's eyes told her that he couldn't bring himself to believe her words. He shook his head in silent, hopeless denial. Despite his best efforts to prevent it, the gentleness of her touch as he desperately tried to believe her words was melting his defenses, more fragile than usual in the wake of his recent trauma. His head dipped forward in a futile attempt to hide the tears that were beginning to streak his face.

"Come here," Cuddy tenderly murmured, releasing his hand and putting her arms around him, attempting to pull him close to her. "It's okay…House…it's all right…"

He resisted slightly at first, but Cuddy knew it was more of an instinctive response to his own pride, than fear related to the attack. Her hands were soft but firm, refusing to let him back away.

"House…" she whispered. "…House…this is okay. It's okay for you to let this out. You _need_ to let this out. Okay? Just – just let me do this for you. Just let me do what I can, okay? Please?"

He bowed his head again, his shoulders tense and trembling. She took his silence as reluctant assent, drawing him close again, one hand rising to guide his head gently toward her. His tears were silent, but she felt them flowing, soaking through the thin fabric of her blouse as he buried his face against her offered shoulder.

"Shh," she soothed him, her other hand running up and down his back in slow, even, calming strokes. "It's okay…that's it…it's okay, House..."

"So…so _stupid_," House muttered angrily, and Cuddy opened her mouth to protest that his tears, his emotions, were not stupid, but then, he went on, and she realized that was not what he was talking about.

"I…I should have been m-more careful," he continued, his breath catching in his throat. "Should have…have watched. Should have _known_ he wouldn't just…just let it go…"

"You couldn't have known," Cuddy reassured him.

"I should have…have tried harder…to…to stop them…should have _fought harder_…" His voice was shaking with anger and disgust, though his words were barely over a furious hiss. "So stupid…so freakin' _pathetic_…"

"House…" Cuddy kept her voice calm, even, though she felt that familiar fury boiling up inside her at his self-incriminations. "…how many of them were there?"

House hesitated, and she felt him cringe against her shoulder as he remembered the incident again. "F-four."

Cuddy waited a moment before asking slowly, quietly, "Do you really think – no matter how hard you fought – that you could have possibly fought them _all_ off? Do you really think there was _anything_ you could have done to prevent it?"

House was silent, not moving, not responding in any way. He could not deny the truth of her pointed question – but neither could he deny the sense of shame and self-disgust that had permeated his entire being at the moment of the attack, so deeply that he was certain he would never be rid of it.

"This was not your fault," Cuddy went on firmly. "House…you couldn't have stopped this from happening to you. But…but you can stop Tritter _now_. You can make sure he never does anything like this again, to you or anyone else…"

House shook his head. "I can't," he whispered, his voice broken.

"We could be sure she was careful. Be sure she didn't get close enough to give him a chance to catch her. We could change the details of the situation…have her present it like she's investigating something else entirely. There's so many ways we could go about it that would keep him from figuring it out. House. But we have to stop him."

"I just have to…to do what he said," House insisted, and Cuddy detected a desperate note of panic to his voice as he drew back slightly, raising his head from her shoulder without looking at her. "I have to just…just keep my mouth shut and not fight back, and do what he says, or…or it'll be worse…I know it. I just…have to keep quiet…"

Alarmed by his words and the sound of his voice, afraid that perhaps she had pushed too hard, pushing him into another flashback, Cuddy drew back, studying his face. "House," she said sharply. "Look at me. Hey."

He obeyed, some of the panic easing from his eyes as he focused on her face.

"It's okay…it's okay…"

Seeming a bit more in control, House repeated softly, holding her gaze, "I just…have to keep quiet. Then he'll leave me alone."

Cuddy nodded sympathetically, a frown creasing her brow. "Except…" she pointed out softly, "…except he hasn't, has he? What do you think he meant by leaving your bike for you, House? He's not going to just let this go. He's going to keep harassing you… This is not going to go away just because you keep quiet… unless we do something to _stop him_, House."

He didn't answer, but the look on his face said that he knew she was right. Still, fear kept him from consenting.

"What if we don't have her trail him, or…or take pictures or surveillance or anything like that? What if we just have her look through whatever records she has access to, and see what she can find through simple research?" Cuddy suggested. "You said you don't think this was the first time he's done this. What if she can find another person he's done this to? Would _that_ be okay?"

House did not respond. He didn't say yes – but Cuddy was inspired to hope by the fact that he didn't say no, either.

"We wouldn't even have to tell her your name…or…or any specifics of what happened. Just that there was an incident of…police brutality…" Cuddy's voice rose slightly with excitement as the idea came together in her mind. "Just present it like that – very generic, very vague – and have her look around _very cautiously_, just in public records and such…and just…see what she finds?"

"She might not…not find anything," House pointed out, although his voice held a thoughtful note that encouraged Cuddy. "He's…really good at…at covering his tracks."

"Maybe she won't," Cuddy conceded, drawing back further and gently touching his chin, tipping his head up slightly to meet her eyes. "But if she _does_…then at that point, we can talk about where to go from there." She hesitated before her next words, not sure if she was willing to keep the promise she was making. "And…if you still don't want to do anything…then we won't. Okay? How does that sound?"

House looked uncertain, confused – but tempted by the idea. He studied her face for a long moment, his apprehension clear in his eyes.

"_Please_," Cuddy whispered, her own eyes welling with tears. "House…I want him to be put away. I – I want you to be safe. To – to not be afraid anymore."

House gave her a sad, bitter smile as he shook his head. "Not sure that's…not sure that's possible," he admitted, his voice hoarse with the tears he had shed.

"I have to try," Cuddy pressed, her thumb gently rubbing a tear away from his cheek as she reached out to take his hand again. "House…please. Please let us _try_."

"You won't tell her my name. And I don't want to meet her."

"No." Cuddy shook her head emphatically, her heart leaping at his promising words. "You won't have to…I promise."

"Don't want her to know about…don't want her to know it was anything more than…" His voice was halting, and trailed off, unable to finish.

"…a bad beating," Cuddy finished for him, nodding. "We'll tell her it was just a beating. Won't give her any more details than necessary."

"And…and she _stays away_ from Tritter himself, and everybody else on the police force." House's voice was stronger as he met her eyes again, his own gaze solemn and unyielding. "She does _nothing_ to let them know there's any investigation at all."

"We'll make sure of it," Cuddy assured him. "When we talk to her, we'll let her know our conditions up front. If she can't abide by them – we won't take it any further. We'll do this exactly like you want to do it, House…"

"I _don't_ want to do it," he reminded her, a sullen note to his voice. Then he sighed, relenting. "But…I will."


	20. Chapter 20

Wilson sat in the hallway outside their hotel room once again, a fast food bag beside him containing House's and Cuddy's lunch

Wilson sat in the hallway outside their hotel room once again, a fast food bag beside him containing House's and Cuddy's lunch. In his hands he held another bag that had held his own lunch – long since empty. He tapped his foot impatiently, fidgeting with the bag in his hands as he glanced toward the closed door.

He didn't want to rush House and Cuddy, but with each minute that ticked by, he became more and more impatient…and curious…about what was happening beyond that closed door.

When his cell phone rang, he flipped it open immediately, not even looking at the name on the screen before answering.

"Yes?"

"We're done. You can come back now." She paused a moment before adding, "He said yes."

Relief flooded Wilson's heart with the words. "Good. I'll be right there…" He was on his feet before the words had left his mouth.

"Wilson…" The hesitation in her voice made him pause before moving nearer to the door.

"Yes?"

"Be quiet when you come in. He's asleep."

Surprised, Wilson was still for a moment. "Oh. Okay. Be right there."

He unlocked the door to the hotel room, taking care to be quiet as he slipped inside and closed it behind him, taking a moment in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The curtains were tightly drawn, the small lamp on the nightstand providing the only light.

Wilson's eyes widened in surprise when he saw House asleep on the bed farthest from the door – his head resting in Cuddy's lap, one arm across her thighs. Cuddy raised her right hand from where it lay on House's back to hold a finger to her lips. She gave Wilson a bemused smile as her left hand trailed idly through House's hair in an instinctive gesture of comfort.

Wilson did his best to suppress the swift, sharp pang of jealousy he felt at the sight.

_Ten years…ten years of proving myself to him…and he won't let me touch him. Five minutes in this room with him, and he's in her arms._

He knew it wasn't a fair comparison – knew that in truth, Cuddy had spent years earning House's trust as well – but he couldn't help feeling just a little resentful.

_Let it go, Wilson,_ he told himself sternly. _It's not fair to either of them, and it doesn't matter anyway. What's important right now is that House gets what he needs – whatever or _whoever_ that might be…_

"That was quick." Cuddy's voice was a low murmur, though clearly audible to him in the stillness of the room. "What were you doing? Waiting outside?"

Her warm smile made it easy for Wilson to put aside his unintentional resentments. He gave a self-deprecating little shrug as he admitted, "Yeah." He set the fast food bag down on the nightstand as he sat down on the other bed, facing Cuddy. Careful to keep his voice soft, he asked, "How is he?"

Cuddy's smile faded a bit as she considered the question, glancing down at House before meeting Wilson's eyes. "A little better…maybe. I…I'm not sure."

Wilson nodded with a sad, understanding smile. "It's hard to tell," he agreed. Hesitating a moment, he sobered. "But…he's agreed to let us call her, then?"

Cuddy nodded. "It took…a little pushing, but…yeah…"

She swallowed hard as she looked down at House again, and Wilson was suddenly aware that she was fighting back tears. She struggled over the words, her voice choked with emotion, as she finally spoke, hesitation and apology in her voice.

"I just…I'm not sure if we should…_should_ be pushing him to do this." She looked up at Wilson, her eyes brimming with tears that glittered in the soft lamplight. "He's just…so scared about it, Wilson. He's so sure that Tritter will come after him if…if he finds out…"

"So we don't let him find out." Wilson's voice was firm.

The truth was, short of calling Jenna Leander, Wilson couldn't think of anything they could do to stop Tritter. There were no authorities to whom they could safely go, without risking the possibility that Tritter's influence could leave them worse off than they were now. Wilson believed he had finally found something he could actually _do_ to help his friend, and he was completely unwilling to let go of that idea, regardless of Cuddy's apprehensions – or House's for that matter.

Cuddy nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "House had a few…conditions, if we're going to call. He doesn't want his name or Tritter's used specifically. He doesn't want any pictures or surveillance. He doesn't want any open investigation that Tritter might find out about."

Wilson frowned, letting out a frustrated sigh. "So…what _can_ we have her do?"

"He's agreed to let her start off with some very basic research – see if she can uncover any evidence of wrongdoing or previous allegations of abuses by the police force. Just through public records, that sort of thing. Nothing that can be traced back to House."

Wilson was quiet for a moment before relenting. "Fine. It's a start."

Cuddy nodded again. "He agreed to discuss it again if she uncovers anything. He just…Wilson, he's just so scared." Cuddy's voice dropped to a whisper on the last few words, as she shook her head, her tears falling to streak her face. She met his eyes, silently imploring him to understand. "He's convinced that Tritter will find out if he tries anything against him, and come after him…and he's convinced that no one can really stop him."

"That's not true," Wilson protested. "He's just a man…"

"Not to House." Cuddy's voice grew firmer as she held Wilson's gaze, her jaw setting in determination as she blinked away her tears. "And…and this is about _House_, Wilson. We…we have to respect his choices on this – no matter how bad we think those choices might be."

Wilson opened his mouth to object, but Cuddy's softly spoken words silenced him, as she looked back down at House, her trembling fingers stroking tenderly through his hair as he slept.

"After all he's been through…he deserves that much. To – to _not_ have _that_ choice taken away from him."

Wilson felt the familiar rush of protective anger and sympathetic hurt at the thought of all the choices, the power that had been mercilessly stripped away from House. His gaze followed Cuddy's to House's still form – so unusually trusting in her arms. Even in sleep, his brow creased in a troubled frown, and he shifted slightly, then became still again.

_He trusts her,_ he realized. _And she _knows_ that he trusts her…and she can't betray that, even for his own good… _Wilson swallowed past the hard knot in his throat, fighting back his own tears of unreasonable hurt_. …and neither can I…even if he never trusts _me_ like that again…_

"You're right," he conceded softly. "We'll do this his way."

_When they finally finished with him, House had been raped nine times._

_He had started counting when Tritter offered him up to his men, trying to make it more bearable by gauging when it would be over. But when they'd each finished, and then the first came back to do it again, his heart sank. The clinical part of his mind kept counting – putting the unbearable horror into manageable units of pain that he could measure, and could therefore pretend that he could control._

_Except that he _couldn't _– not with Tritter whispering in his ear the entire time, constantly reminding him that _nothing_ was within his control here._

_Out of nine separate violations, it was only Tritter the first time – but it was Tritter _every_ time._

_While his cohorts brutally assaulted House again and again, Tritter knelt beside him, holding him in place and whispering poison into his ear._

"_Bet you're wondering when I'll take another turn," he mused, his voice far too low for the others to make out over their own jeering laughter and crude remarks. Tritter let out a soft sound of disgust that made House cringe in shame, as he leaned in closer to hiss against House's ear. _

"_I wouldn't touch you again, _now_…not after they've _all_ had you. See, these guys…they're not like me. They've got no standards. A couple of them have been known to work out…special bail arrangements…with the hookers they bring into the station." House could feel Tritter's smirk, his breath hot against his neck, and he shuddered, wanting to pull away, but not daring to. _

"_Who knows what those girls have given to them?" Tritter paused for effect, before whispering in a voice that was almost gentle, "What they're giving you _right now_? These guys aren't like me; they aren't wearing protection, House. Do you know how disgusting that is? How disgusting _you_ are now? They've turned you into a filthy little whore that no one will ever want to touch again, House. That's what you are now. A filthy…disgusting…little…_bitch_."_

_The word overwhelmed House with an oppressive feeling of terror and shame that was nauseating, a sick taste in the back of his throat as he fought back a shudder of revulsion at what Tritter was telling him._

_Defiled…disgusting…ruined beyond all repair…_

_That's what would be left of him when they were finally finished._

_At last, his abusers seemed to be sated, allowing House's exhausted, battered body to collapse to the floor. Tritter still held the belt around his neck, however, and barely gave him a moment to recover before jerking him roughly to his feet, dragging him backward across the room and forcing him up against the wall._

_Overcome with agony and exhaustion, House nearly collapsed, but Tritter held him up, pressing in close, one hand pressing against his bare, bruised chest as he leaned in to snarl warningly in his face._

"_You'd better stay standing up, House. Don't make me hurt you any worse."_

_House braced his back against the wall as best he could with his hands bound in front of him, his legs shaking violently as he fought against the agony that threatened to take him to the ground, a silent litany of desperation echoing through his mind._

Stay up…gotta stay up… can't take anymore…gotta stay up…if you don't he'll…he'll…

_His shocked, trauamatized mind couldn't finish – or _refused_ to finish – the thought, but House managed somehow to stay on his feet, even when Tritter released him, dropping his hold on the belt and taking a slow step or two backward, forcing House to support his own weight against the wall._

"_Good," Tritter murmured, nodding his approval with a cruel smile. "That's good, House…you just do exactly what I tell you. Now…" His eyes narrowed as he ordered in a steely voice that made House's stomach drop, "…get on your knees."_

_House opened his eyes, staring at Tritter in confusion and disbelief. He had just ordered him to stand…_

_And then, he understood._

_That was the point._

_He would stand when Tritter ordered it. When he fell to his knees, it would not be because he could no longer support himself, but because Tritter _demande_d it._

_Every part of House that was not yet broken rose up in defiant protest against the command, calculated to cause him the most shame possible. He steadied himself against the wall, holding Tritter's gaze, his jaw set in stubborn refusal._

"_Make up your mind," he ground out the words, breathless with pain, but still somehow managing to bring a faltering half-smirk to his lips. "Once I'm…d-down there…don't think I'll be able to get up again…so…better be sure that's…what you want…"_

_Tritter's smile faded into fury, and he closed the distance between them in a moment, his fist closing around House's throat to slam his head backward into the wall in a dizzying blow. He followed it up with a fist to House's stomach that would have doubled him over had Tritter not held him against the wall, not allowing him to fall to the floor._

_He leaned in close, his eyes glittering with malice as he warned, "Don't screw around with me, House. You'll end up on your knees, one way or the other. And if it's not _my _way, you'll wish it had been." He paused, tightening his hold on House's throat, edging in closer to bite out the words through clenched teeth, "Do _not. Push. Me_."_

_He released House suddenly, but the badly injured doctor somehow managed to stay standing as Tritter backed off again, giving him room. The detective's voice was cold, with an edge of menace to it that send a shudder down House's spiner, despite his determination not to give in, not to submit to this further humiliation._

_Tritter's men stood in silence, watching this minor showdown with interest._

"_On. Your. Knees."_

_House stayed on his feet._

_Tritter moved forward again, but this time caught the end of the belt in his hand and jerked House forward, easily pulling him off balance and onto his knees on the floor. Tritter crouched down with him, yanking him closer by the belt around his throat, reaching with his free hand to take a small but wickedly sharp police-issue switchblade from his pocket._

_House's stomach lurched as Tritter brought the blade into contact with House's throat, tracing idly along the line where the belt restricted it. His eyes were utterly focused on Tritter's hand slowly trailing the cold steel across his flesh._

"_Look at me," Tritter gave the familiar order, and House automatically obeyed, despite his recent defiance. Tritter smiled coldly into his eyes, as he whispered, "I could kill you right now, House. You…are…_mine_…and I can do whatever I want with you." Tritter's smile widened at the terror in House's eyes, and he shrugged as he pulled the blade away. "But…I don't want to kill you. Not when there are so many more…much more interesting things that I could do…with this knife…"_

_House's heart sank at the sadistic implications in the detective's words, and the nasty, malicious glint in his ice blue eyes. He struggled to pull away, even as Tritter jerked his face downward, holding it firmly against the floor._

"_Hold him," he ordered._

_One of his men immediately took the belt from his hand, holding House's face down, while others moved to maneuver and hold House's body in place. Without the use of his hands, and with so many stronger hands restraining his shoulders, his legs, pinning him down – he was helpless. Panic choked him as he struggled uselessly, unable to shift the hard grip of the hands that held him._

_Tritter's voice was behind him now – and that was the most terrifying fact of all._

"_No…" House couldn't stop the desperate, strangled sound of his own voice from leaving his parched, shaking lips. "…don't!"_

_It was as close as he had come to begging yet – but in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care._

"_When I say get on your knees, House," Tritter stated, his voice hard and merciless, utterly ignoring House's plea, "you'll get on your knees."_

_An instant later, panic was overtaken by searing, agonizing pain, as Tritter violated him again – but this time, with the three-inch blade in his hand, rather than with his own body. House cried out, bucking and struggling to free himself from the relentless, stabbing agony his captor was inflicting – but his efforts were useless. _

_He heard someone sobbing, crying out, pleading._

"_Stop…please…don't…"_

_It took him a long time to realize that it was his own voice he heard – a very long time, during which Tritter never let up his vicious assault. It seemed to go on forever. The pain was too much; House longed for unconsciousness to deliver him from it – but it did not come._

_There was no escape…no hope…no mercy…_

_When Tritter was finished, he motioned his men away, glaring down at the trembling captive for a moment before grabbing the belt and jerking him up onto his knees, then onto his feet once more. He shoved him back against the wall again, this time leaving a trail of blood along the floor in his wake._

_House was shaking violently, stricken with shock and horror at what had just happened. His breath grew quick and shallow, almost sobbing, recoiling with dread, as Tritter moved in close again, trailing an invasive hand around behind House to brush possessively against his bruised, bloodied ass._

"_Hey." He spoke sharply, snapping his fingers in House's face. "Eyes up here. On me."_

_House obeyed, panic clearly visible in his lost, broken stare._

_Tritter's voice was a cool, controlled whisper, his almost affectionate smile devastating to House, as he asked, "Are you starting to get it, now, House? You're not gonna win this one. You're not gonna get away. No one's gonna help you." _

_He paused, shifting in closer, filling the empty space between them, one hand pressed against the wall beside House's head. He waited a moment, smirking at House's flinch, at the stark, unmasked terror in House's eyes as he obediently returned Tritter's gaze._

"_Who's in control here, House?" he whispered._

_House faltered over the words, barely a breath on his lips. "Y-you are…"_

"_That's right." Tritter nodded and smiled his approval, his voice soft and patient. "Who's got the power in this situation?"_

"_You do…" House lowered his gaze, ashamed, but unresisting._

_Tritter snapped his fingers, and House immediately looked back up at him, fear in his eyes at his mistake of looking away. For the moment, Tritter was inclined to ignore it._

"_You're nothing but a pathetic little bitch, to be used…aren't you, House?"_

_His shoulders trembling with silent, shameful sobs, House nodded shakily. Tritter's voice was barely audible as he added a final question, leaning in even closer._

"Whose_?"_

_House was silent for a long moment, barely able to bring himself to give the required response – but broken beyond resistance. Finally, he replied in a hoarse, pleading whisper. _

"_Y-yours…"_

"_Very good." _

_Tritter's voice was gentle, leading, like a teacher with a particularly slow student. He released his grip on House, backing up again, leaving him leaning against the wall, shaking violently with terror, shock, and agonizing pain. Tritter waited a moment, smiling in satisfaction as he looked over the damage he had wrought in House's broken body and brutalized soul._

_His voice was soft and slow as he uttered one more command, utterly confidant that this time, it would be obeyed._

"_Get on your knees, House."_

_Broken, no longer possessing the spirit to resist…House fell forward onto his knees, his face to the floor, his shoulders shaking with sobs of despair._

_Looking down at him with dark satisfaction, Tritter smiled._

_He had won._


	21. Chapter 21

Laughing, jeering voices surrounded him – but House hardly heard them

_Laughing, jeering voices surrounded him – but House hardly heard them._

_The only voice that mattered to him right then was directly in front of him, speaking soft words of hatred and degradation in a tone of calm authority._

"_Get up. That's it. Up on your knees. Face me, and look at me, you little slut." _

_Tritter's smile was chillingly gentle, amused, as House obediently met his gaze, barely able to hold himself up on his knees anymore for the electric jolts of agony that coursed through his body with even the slightest movement._

"_That's good," Tritter soothed him, running a possessive hand gently down House's side as his other hand steadied him. "Good…that's it…stay up on your knees, now, House." _

_He paused, silent as he rose to his feet, standing directly in front of his helpless, broken captive – and began to slowly, deliberately, unfasten his pants. He met House's upturned, fearfully questioning eyes with a cruel smirk, his voice quiet and calm as he explained._

"_You've got work to do…"_

"House! _House_!"

Alarmed by the panic that had suddenly overtaken House in his sleep, Cuddy urgently shook his shoulder, careful to keep her voice soft, not wishing to frighten him any further. He was thrashing wildly in his sleep, pitiful, pleading moans escaping his throat as he tried to pull away from the arms around him that had provided comfort only moments earlier.

"House! Wake up! It's all right, you just need to _wake up_!"

"Please…no…" he sobbed without waking, shaking his head as he cringed at her touch – perceived in his sleep to be the touch of someone else. "Please, _don't_…"

Abruptly he scrambled backward out of her embrace, pulling himself up on his arms to a half-sitting position, eyes wide open. Lost and panicked, he blinked at his unfamiliar surroundings. Cuddy reached out a cautious hand to hold his arm, afraid that in his disoriented state, he might tumble backward off the bed onto the floor.

"House…" She spoke in a soft, even voice, holding his gaze, trying to ground him. "House…you're okay…we're in the hotel room…it's just you and me, and you're safe…"

He just stared at her blankly for a few moments, his lips parted and trembling, his breath rapid and shallow. "Cuddy," he whispered at last, and she could see the relief in his eyes as he remembered where he was, and with whom.

She nodded reassuringly, her thumb gently caressing the bare skin beneath her hand, her other hand reaching up to gently run through his hair, trying her best to offer comfort. "Just me," she confirmed. "It's all right."

House visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping, his face falling forward against the coarse blanket that covered the bed. "Cuddy," he whispered breathlessly, reaching out a trembling hand to rest on her leg. "I…I'm sorry…"

The apology itself was cause enough for alarm, given what she knew of House. Cuddy frowned, troubled, as she allowed her hand to trail around from his hair to his cheek, carefully guiding his head up to look at her.

"Hey," she murmured, shaking her head in mild reproof when he met her eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry for." She watched as shame and despair flooded his face. "Come here," she urged him, pulling him toward her. "Come on…it's okay…"

There was no hesitation this time, as House scooted closer to her, resting his head against her chest as she wrapped her arms around him. They were both quiet for a few minutes, House clinging to her, his head bowed, silent tears falling to form tiny dark circles on the gray fabric of her skirt.

Then the tremors started, tremors that were strong enough to shake Cuddy as well, and she held him tighter in a vain attempt to soothe them away. She cradled his head close to her with one hand, slowly stroking his head, holding him and comforting him as she imagined she might do with her own child.

After a few minutes had passed, Cuddy finally ventured to speak. "That…must have been some nightmare…"

House was very still against her for a long moment. Finally, he nodded without a word. His hands on her waist tightened slightly for a moment, reinforcing in her mind his desperate need for reassurance and comfort.

"It's all right," she whispered, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay…" She hesitated a moment, uncertain if she should be speaking at all, even as she did. "If you…want to talk about it…at all…"

House shook his head firmly without hesitation, swallowing hard, and she felt his trembling increase, slowly realizing that the idea of confessing what he had been through terrified him.

_But he needs to…at some point…if he doesn't talk about it, he's never going to get past it…_

"You don't have to," she hurried to add. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to, House. But…I want you to know that…if you _do_…I'm here. And I'll listen. And…I won't see you any differently. Nothing will change."

House did not respond for a long time, so long that by the time he _did_ speak, Cuddy was certain that he was not going to. His haunted words put a dull ache in her chest.

"You _already_ see me differently," he whispered. "Everything's changed. _I've_ changed."

"That's not true," she tried to object, but he cut her off quietly before she could get any farther.

"This…this never would have happened before," he pointed out, waving a hand in a vague gesture to indicate the rather intimate position which they were currently in. "You never would have…and _I_ sure as hell wouldn't have…"

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, taking in his words, silently acknowledging the truth of them. At last, she replied in a quiet voice, uncertain how her words might be received.

"I would have…if…if _you_ would have."

House froze for a moment, before raising his eyes to hers, curiosity clear in his gaze. Suddenly feeling self-conscious under the scrutiny of those piercing, perceptive eyes, Cuddy cleared her throat, shrugging slightly.

"You're still my friend, House. You've…always been my friend. And I've always been there for you, as much as you would let me. And…that's not about to change – no matter _what_ you decide to tell me."

House studied her expression for a long moment, and she saw a softening, a vulnerability in his eyes, before he lowered them again, leaning his head against her chest once more. She thought that the conversation was over. She would have to content herself with the fact that he had accepted her words without mockery or outright refusal. Cuddy continued to hold him as his breath gradually evened out again, and she felt him slowly relax against her.

When at last he spoke again, it took her completely by surprise.

"He – he told me he _owns_ me, Cuddy. That means – he's not about to let this go. He's …watching me, somehow. Anything I do to try and get him caught – he'll know. That's why I…I…can't tell the PI. Can't tell anyone else at all. It ends here." His quiet voice was trembling slightly, but his tone was unyielding.

Cuddy straightened, gently pushing him away from her enough that she could look him in the eye. "But…you already said…"

"I changed my mind." House looked up at her, his expression solemn and calm, but she could see the terror behind his careful façade. "I…have the right to do that. And now…I don't want her to know. I can't…can't take the risk."

Cuddy let out a deep, shaky breath, biting her lower lip.

House frowned, worry forming in his eyes. "Cuddy – _what_?"

She swallowed hard, holding his gaze as she gently explained, "House…it's too late. Wilson came back a couple hours ago. You'd said it was okay, so…I told him to go see her. He's probably with her right now…"

Jenna had never expected to see the strange young man from the hotel room again.

Curiosity had prompted her to leave her card outside his room. Caution had kept her from having another encounter with him and his gun in the hotel hallway. Still, she'd thought about him several times that evening, wondering what it was that he and his mysterious friend were running from.

Because they obviously were running. If they weren't, he wouldn't have been so concerned about the possibility of her calling the police. Reluctantly, she put him out of her mind that night, resigning herself to the fact that this was one mystery she would never know the answer to.

Until he walked through the door to her office the next afternoon.

For a moment, she glanced around nervously. She still didn't know who this man was, or whether he might be dangerous. Fortunately, the room was filled with her colleagues at their own desks. Also, she realized, the office entrance was equipped with a metal detector, which had not gone off when he entered.

_No gun today then…that's got to be a _good_ thing…_

She watched him approach, a reluctant smile quirking her lips upward when she saw his self-conscious, self-deprecating half-smile. He looked up at her, his head lowered, displaying thick, dark lashes over deep brown eyes. His hands were in his pockets, like a little boy caught in some mischievous act, and his voice was shy as he stopped in front of her desk, extending an uncertain hand toward her.

"Hi. Dr. James Wilson."

All in all – the second impression was far more appealing than the first.

Not that the first had not been appealing as well – in a possible-impending-death sort of way.

"Hi," she replied with a cool nod, though the smile on her lips was more welcoming than her tone. "Unarmed today, I see."

"Oh…yeah," he laughed sheepishly as he glanced around the office, taking in the curious eyes that were watching him from various places around the room. "I, um…got your card. And…well…I think we _could_ use your help." His smile faded, the humor in his dark eyes disappearing as he asked, "Is there…somewhere we could speak privately?"

Jenna hesitated a moment before rising to her feet, nodding toward the closed door to the office she and her colleagues all used for private consults.

"Right this way."

She led him into the office, closing the door behind her, then moving around the large wooden desk to sit down, as Dr. James Wilson sat down in the chair across from her.

"So…what can I do for you?" Jenna asked, her tone cool and professional.

The young doctor drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, obviously gathering his courage to answer. Jenna just waited patiently; she was used to customers coming to her with issues of a rather personal, embarrassing nature. His reluctance did not surprise her in the least.

At last, Dr. Wilson began, "Before I tell you anything about this…I need to know that I have complete and total confidentiality. My friend…"

"The…friend…with the nightmare?" Jenna clarified, one eyebrow raised to indicate her doubts as to his previous explanation.

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "That friend. He's…in a very vulnerable position, and…he needs to know that _no one_ else is going to find out about this, if you work with us on this."

"Confidentiality is not an issue," Jenna assured him. "Nothing you tell me will leave the walls of this office."

Wilson sighed, relieved. "You'll remember, I…was particularly concerned about your possibly…calling the police?"

Jenna nodded, trying not to show her rising curiosity.

"It's because…my friend was attacked. By someone on the police force."

Jenna's eyes widened in surprise, and she couldn't help but feel just a little bit of excitement. If what this man was telling her was true, this was potentially a bigger case than any she had worked on thus far. She frowned, thoughtful, her mind already racing ahead, laying the framework for the puzzle she was about to begin working.

"When you say 'attacked'…?"

Wilson hesitated. It was just for a fraction of an instant – but Jenna caught it, and knew immediately that there was more to the situation than he was telling her.

"Beaten. He was cornered by…at least one police officer, and…and beaten very badly."

"_At least_ one?" Jenna echoed, skeptical. "It was either one, or it was more than one. That much is usually pretty clear."

"It was…more than one _person_," Wilson clarified, slightly agitated, and Jenna noted the increase in his nervousness. "It was one police officer for sure. We…don't know about the others."

"So…your friend…_knows _the police officer who did this?" Jenna frowned, thinking that perhaps this would be a much simpler case than she had initially thought.

Wilson hesitated again, though this time much more obviously. "Yes," he admitted at last. "He does. But…we can't prove anything without evidence. That's where you come in."

"You want me to investigate this guy? Find some evidence of suspicious activities on his part? Something that's strong enough for you to take to his superiors and have it actually make a difference?"

Wilson looked relieved at her assessment. "Exactly," he sighed.

Jenna nodded. "So…what's this cop's name?"

Wilson bit his lip nervously. "Um…I can't tell you."

Jenna raised an eyebrow in his direction. "That…might make things a little more difficult."

"My friend…is very traumatized by what happened," Wilson explained. "He's afraid that if…if this police officer finds out we're investigating him, he'll come after him again for coming forward. So…he doesn't want his name used…or the police officer's name. He doesn't want to meet you, and…and he doesn't want you to actually interview anyone on the force, anything like that. He doesn't want an obvious, open investigation."

Jenna stared at him for a moment, mentally watching her potential "big break" fading away. "So…you and your friend do know what a private investigator _does_…right?"

Wilson nodded apologetically, his soft brown eyes warm and understanding as he held her gaze. "Look…I know this isn't usually what you do. It's just…we obviously can't go to the police. We have nowhere else to go, and…and I know that these conditions are ridiculous, and they make it very hard for you to do your job. But…these conditions are the only way I could get him to let me call you at all. And…I'm hoping that if you can find something…generic…that's suspicious…something that _might_ give us a chance against this guy…maybe then, my friend will reconsider."

Jenna studied his face for a moment, her own expression softening with compassion at the sincere worry and pain she saw in Wilson's eyes.

"This guy must be a really good friend," she observed gently. Her heart melted when Wilson's eyes welled with tears.

"He is." He nodded, his voice barely over a hoarse whisper. "And…I want him to have justice. I want the guy who did this to him…put away." His voice trembled with emotion, and Jenna got the distinct impression that Wilson wanted the guy a little bit more than "put away".

_More like 'put down'…_

"Do you think…do you think you can help us?" Wilson's voice was soft, pleading, and Jenna found all her doubts and apprehensions lost in the deep brown of his eyes.

She nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'll do my best," she promised with a nod, reaching across the desk to shake his hand. "I know your friend doesn't want to give out any details, but there are a few things I'll need to…"

Jenna stopped talking when Wilson's phone rang, and he held up a finger with an apologetic grimace as he took it out of his pocket.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, shaking his head as he glanced at the caller ID screen.

Immediately his face paled as he flipped the phone open and held it to his ear. "Hey. Is he okay?"

A loud male voice was suddenly audible on the other line, even from where Jenna sat a few yards away, though the voice was too frantic and distorted with volume for her to make out the words. Wilson looked surprised at the sound of the voice, blinking as he listened to the abrupt tirade.

"House…hey…calm down…no, it's all right…it's all…House…._House_!" Wilson sounded frustrated. He was quiet a moment longer, listening, before he tried again. "Well, if you'd let me get a word…House…would you wait a second? Just a second, House, and I'll be out of here, okay? Give me a second."

He shot Jenna a questioning look as he rose from his chair and leaned across the desk, reaching for a pen and a small post-it pad she kept there. When she nodded her consent, Wilson picked up the items, the phone positioned between his ear and his shoulder as he jotted down his cell phone number on the top sheet of the pad.

The way he was leaning over her desk, and the positioning of the phone, made the voice on the other line suddenly much clearer, and Jenna could make out the words, spoken in a slow, cautious tone of voice.

"Wilson…did you just say my name in front of her? Like…five times?"

Wilson froze halfway through writing his number, glancing up at Jenna with a grimace. "Um…no…she's not in the room…" He cringed immediately after the lie, one hand rising to his forehead as he waited for his friend's reaction.

"Liar."

"House…"

"Six! Six times! God, Wilson, will you _shut up_?"

Wilson sighed, massaging his temples with his thumb and fingers. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't think about it. You're the one who called me in the middle of this meeting…"

"I didn't want there to _be_ a meeting!"

"You said it was fine. House – this is our only chance." Wilson's voice was quiet, firm, heavy with concern.

"Seven." House was, apparently, unimpressed.

"I've already told her…what I was going to tell her," Wilson admitted. "It's too late to take it back now. Don't you think since it's already out there, we should go ahead and…"

"No."

"House…"

"Eight."

There was a momentary silence, a long distance stand off, and Jenna waited with interest to see what would happen next. House was the first to break the silence.

"Fine. If she's going to be involved, I'm going to make sure she understands the rules…"

"I already explained the rules…"

"I said _I'm _going to make sure," House repeated irritably. "Have her come here. I want to talk to her."

Wilson blinked, clearly stunned by those words. "You…you're sure?"

"Yes, Wilson, I'm sure!" House snapped. "Just, for God's sake, get her here before she does _anything_ to start investigating!"

A loud click ended the conversation, and Wilson stared at the phone for a moment before closing it. He looked up at Jenna, blinking in surprise, still processing the conversation he had just had.

"I…guess he wants to meet you, after all."


	22. Chapter 22

"So…your friend's first name is House

Chapter 22

The Interview

"So…your friend's first name is House? That's unusual."

Wilson looked momentarily away from the road to glance at Jenna in the passenger seat as he corrected her assumption with a sigh of resignation. It was too late to take back the knowledge from her, now that he had already let it out.

"Last name, actually," he admitted.

"Oh." Jenna was quiet for a moment. "What's his _first_ name?"

Wilson shook his head with a grim smile. "No, you already know too much, Ms. Leander. He didn't want you to know his name at all – first _or_ last."

"It's Jenna," she corrected him with a smile. "If we're going to work together, we might as well be comfortable. I'm much more comfortable on a first name basis."

Wilson nodded, silently accepting her preference.

"But…you're obviously not," Jenna observed thoughtfully. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You call your best friend by his last name?"

Wilson cast another, sharper glance in her direction, wary of her calm, casual question and obviously acute perception, irritated by the fact that he knew he had already given away more than House wanted. "I never said he was my _best _friend," he pointed out.

Jenna smiled softly, staring out the windshield, watching the Princeton suburbs fly by as Wilson drove them toward the hotel where he and his friend were staying. Her voice was quiet as she shrugged. "You didn't have to."

Wilson let out a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head as he looked at her again, this time with a knowing, mildly suspicious amusement in his eyes. "Oh, he's gonna **like** _you_!" He was quiet a moment before amending with a worried frown. "Either that, or he's going to _eat_ you."

When he glanced at Jenna to see her looking at him with a single raised brow, Wilson reconsidered his rather unfortunate choice of words. The nervous stammering sound was back in his voice as he hurried to clarify.

"I mean…as in…eat you alive…like…if he _doesn't_ like you. I didn't mean that at all in the…suggestive…sexy way that it could have been taken…"

Jenna allowed a trace of a smile to touch her lips as she rolled her eyes at his awkwardness, unwilling to allow him to see how adorable she found it. "Don't worry," she drawled. "I didn't find anything you said the least bit sexy."

"Great." Wilson's lips twisted into a self-deprecating grimace as he remarked under his breath, too soft for her to hear, "_That's_ always nice to hear."

As they reached the door of the hotel room, Wilson took out his key and prepared to slide it through the electronic lock – but then he stopped, holding up a halting hand in Jenna's direction, a warning expression on his face. She gave him a questioning look, silenced by the apprehension in his soft brown eyes.

"Just so you know, the gun's on top of the wardrobe near the bathroom. Nobody can get to it without a little bit of effort, and no one's gonna touch it or anything while you're here, so you don't have to worry…"

Jenna cut him off with a reassuring smile. "Not worried."

"Okay, good." Wilson nodded. "Just…just be careful, when we go in there. I mean…you have to try not to push too hard. You don't want to freak him out, but you don't want to let him know you're _trying_ not to freak him out. He's…he's fragile right now, but…but if you _treat_ him like he's fragile, he'll shut this whole thing down so fast…" Wilson shook his head warningly. "Just…talk to him like…like you would talk to…"

Jenna raised a single brow when Wilson couldn't seem to finish the advice he was giving, and finished his thought for him in a wry, skeptical tone of voice, "…someone who'd experienced _only _a beating?"

As Wilson stared at her in surprise, Jenna edged past him and knocked on the door. Wilson gave her an exasperated look, pointedly holding up his key.

She shrugged. "You weren't using it."

A moment later a sharp male voice from the other side demanded, "Who's there?"

"It's me."

Wilson spoke up, casting a final anxious glance in Jenna's direction as he finally ran the key through the lock and pushed the door open. Jenna followed him inside, and he carefully closed and locked the door behind her before turning to face the room. Wilson froze for a moment in surprise at what he saw.

Cuddy was still seated on the bed as she had been when he left, one arm resting across her stomach, looking very relaxed and comfortable. House stood a few feet away from the door, where he had obviously been waiting to open it until Wilson had opened it himself.

It was House's appearance that Wilson found most stunning.

House looked like…well, like _House_ again.

Wilson felt his apprehension heightened at the sight of House in his typical garb, leaning casually on his new cane, a sharp, appraising look focused on Jenna. After a startled moment, Wilson recognized it for what it was: his façade was firmly in place, the façade he usually presented at the hospital, to his staff, patients – anyone he wanted to convince that he was invulnerable, infallible.

Jenna looked back at him, an expression on her face very similar to the one House wore. To her, his mysterious friend was just a new mystery to figure out – and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

_And how scarily familiar is_ that?

The problem was, if Jenna _did_ manage to figure House out – it would all be over, then and there. House would throw her out…and he wouldn't call anyone else. Wilson knew that if this plan against Tritter fell apart, House would never be willing to attempt another one. Their best chance rested on the shoulders of this young, inexperienced investigator who knew nothing of what she was getting into.

"House, this is Jenna Leander. Jenna, this is…House."

He met the young woman's eyes briefly, hoping she could read the unspoken plea in his own.

_Come on, Jenna…don't screw this up…_

"I thought you said she wasn't hot."

Jenna glanced at Wilson, who not only clearly expected her to be more offended than she was, but seemed acutely embarrassed by House's words. He cast an anxious, trapped look in her direction before glaring at House.

"I never said…I mean…what I said was…"

"Oh, that's right!" House amended with false recollection, a sly smile on his lips as he met Wilson's accusing gaze. "You said she _was_ hot. I get so confused, what with all the strange women you're always bringing around…"

Jenna found the idea that Wilson was a womanizing playboy strangely disappointing – but the idea only lasted as long as it took to meet his eyes. Wilson looked terribly embarrassed by the accusation, and utterly innocent.

_Of course…rule number one…if they look _too_ innocent, they're probably not…_

"I didn't…I don't…" Wilson stammered, looking between House and Jenna in embarrassment. "I mean…what I actually said was…"

"Don't worry about it," Jenna said, a little unsure if the idea of Wilson's finding her attractive, or _not _finding her attractive, was more unsettling to her. "We're not here to discuss my rating on the hottie scale, are we?"

After a moment of surprised silence, House replied softly, "No. No, we're not." He paused before gesturing toward the woman on the bed. "This is…Lisa."

The woman was well-dressed, if a bit rumpled, and looked as if she had been crying recently. Jenna tried to conceal her curiosity, wondering about Lisa's involvement in all of this. Wilson hadn't mentioned anyone besides House. Was she House's wife, or girlfriend perhaps? Or maybe Wilson's?

The woman gave House an odd look, but then smiled at Jenna with a slight wave, not moving from where she sat on the bed. She was watching House closely, and Jenna got the impression that she was somehow surprised by his behavior. A glance at Wilson revealed that he was just as thrown by…something…about the way House was acting.

Just what about House's behavior was so surprising to his companions, Jenna had no way of knowing.

House's smile did not falter, but Jenna thought she detected a brief flash of fear in his eyes as he nodded once toward a chair at the small table near the door. Jenna sat down in the other chair, farthest from the door, but positioned so that she was facing everyone else in the room.

Body language, tone of voice, facial expressions – in her line of work, all meant more than the spoken word.

And in this case, her training and perception told her that the spoken word she would be receiving would be severely limited.

She waited patiently while House seated himself in the chair across from her, the table between them; Wilson moved to sit on the edge of the bed, close to the side of the table, positioned so that he was between them. Jenna could not help but notice how protective he was, as if he was afraid she might try to harm House in some way. He obviously wanted to be ready to intervene, should anything go wrong.

Any fear she had initially felt about these men had long since vanished. They were clearly far more apprehensive of her than she was of them.

"So…what happened?" Jenna asked after a moment's awkward silence. "How did this all…?"

"Me first." House abruptly interrupted her, though his voice remained quiet and controlled.

His eyes were intense, piercing, the bluest eyes Jenna had ever seen, and they locked onto her in a way that was vaguely unsettling – as if he could see through the casually professional face she presented to the world, right through to the nervous, inexperienced girl hoping to land what was only her fourth case.

She nodded, keeping her expression neutral, waiting for him to go on.

"This doesn't start out with you asking me twenty questions," House informed her, his sharp gaze moving gradually from her face down to her feet, then back up again. "If you're going to work for me, then _I_ get to do the interview."

"Of course," Jenna agreed, trying to appear casual, forcing herself to hold his gaze despite the intense desire to look away from those too-perceptive eyes. "What…exactly…do you want to know?"

House gave her another, quicker, up-and-down look of appraisal before observing, "You're, what? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-six."

"Been doing this job…two months."

Jenna blinked, but tried not to betray her surprise at the man's swift and accurate guess. Aware that she probably hadn't disguised her reaction all that well, she allowed a bemused smile to cross her lips as she gave him a sideways half-nod.

"Close," she lied. "Four."

House's eyes narrowed slightly, and Jenna coolly held his gaze for a long, silent moment.

"Two," he insisted finally, a knowing smirk beginning on his lips, a glint of pleasure in his eyes – and Jenna realized that he was enjoying this.

She relented with a sigh and a soft laugh. "Okay, two," she admitted. "How did you know that… and if you're so good at this yourself, why the heck do you need _me_?"

"Lucky guess," House replied with a modest shrug. "A few seconds later, your face…your body language…told me just _how_ lucky."

"You're perceptive," Jenna observed. "Observant. Detail-oriented. _Not_ a detective. So…doctor, maybe?"

She wasn't nearly as sure of her guess as her tone suggested. The details she had mentioned, combined with what little she knew of Wilson and his profession, led to her reasonable guess that House _might_ be a doctor, too. Still, it was the best guess she had, and she was eager to prove herself just as sharp and perceptive as her prospective client.

If she wasn't…why would he need to hire her?

"That might be impressive," House said quietly, pausing a moment before adding in exactly the same casual, conversational tone of voice as he had used before, "if you weren't totally and completely _wrong_."

Jenna's heart sank, as once again she saw the intriguing case slipping through her fingers.

"You're young and inexperienced, and have never handled a case this dangerous before."

Jenna was speechless, having no answer for his painfully accurate words. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"And you're hired."

Jenna stared at him, her mind whirling, struggling to keep up with the constant shifts in the conversation. "You're…hiring me because…I'm inexperienced?"

"No, I'm hiring you because of your shoes."

"My…shoes?" Jenna was hopelessly lost, wondering if House was being sarcastic

"You're wearing a stylish yet comfortable skirt with a name-brand blouse for that casually professional look. And yet…your sneakers looks as if they've survived a few marathons – and both World Wars."

Jenna tucked her feet self-consciously under her chair. She finally broke eye contact, her gaze focused on the table in front of her for a few moments. She really, _really_ wanted this job, and now she was was almost certain she had lost it.

"I…usually wear more…professional shoes…"

"No, you don't," House cut her off, rolling his eyes in exaggerated impatience. "You've worn those shoes every day since…what, your second week on this job?"

Jenna looked up at him again, amazed at his skill in reading clues she wasn't even aware she was giving him. This time she didn't even pretend that he hadn't read her perfectly. She just nodded silently, waiting for his explanation.

House nodded, his speculations confirmed. "Clothes may make the man," he observed, "but _shoes_ make the woman."

He paused before clarifying. "You care about your appearance – but you care _more_ about your job. You'd rather be able to actually _do_ your job than to look pretty while doing it." A quirky half-smile crossed his face. "Can't exercise a lot of stealth in a kickin' pair of sexy heels, now, can you?"

When Jenna finally pieced together the fact that he was actually complimenting her – not to mention _hiring_ her – she cautiously returned his smile. She glanced at Wilson, who was watching his friend with bemused fascination. Jenna got the impression that House's brilliant powers of deduction were something Wilson saw often, but never quite got used to seeing. The younger man seemed just a little bit in awe of the older, in that moment.

"No," she acknowledged. "You really can't. So…now that I'm officially on the case…and you've pretty much deduced my entire life story…" She paused, noting sudden fear and uncertainty on his face at the turn the conversation was taking. Her voice softened as she added in a slow, cautious voice, "…why don't you tell me _your _story?"


	23. Chapter 23

Silence descended on the hotel room in the wake of Jenna's gentle prodding

Silence descended on the hotel room in the wake of Jenna's gentle prodding. They all knew that if Jenna was going to be able to do anything to help them, the next step in this process was for House to tell her what had happened – or rather, whatever version of what had happened he decided was safe to tell.

Wisely, Cuddy and Wilson both kept silent, waiting for House to speak, and their quiet deference to his desires did not go unnoticed by Jenna. His voice was quiet, hesitant, when he finally began, and Jenna noted the abrupt change in his demeanor that accompanied the change in the conversation.

"I was…leaving work, headed for my vehicle. There were…several men…" House paused, swallowing hard, struggling visibly, "…they…attacked me. They…beat me with…my own cane, and…and left me there. I managed to…to get up and get to…help." He cleared his throat, finally raising his eyes from the table to meet Jenna's gaze. "And that's all you need to know."

Jenna raised a single dubious brow. "And – at least one of those men – is a police officer?"

House hesitated, his jaw clenched in frustrated indecision. Wilson reached out a reassuring hand under the table, and House irritably shrugged off the gesture, knocking his hand away with a warning glare.

Wilson just held his gaze with an unrepentant, expectant look, and House finally relented, looking away with a sigh.

"Yes," he admitted. "More than one. Though I…only knew…one of them."

Jenna was quiet, considering. "I'm…assuming this was…personal? Not a random attack?"

House nodded grimly, not quite meeting her eyes. "Yeah. It was personal."

"But – you can't tell me why."

Defensive irritation flashing in his eyes, House snapped back, "You're the detective. You can't figure it out?"

Without hesitation, her voice even and calm, Jenna countered, "You want me to try?"

House looked up at her sharply, studying her expression warily for a long moment. "No," he answered at last. "I don't."

Jenna nodded in silent acceptance. In the same quiet, non-confrontational tone, she asked, "Then…what _do_ you want me to do?"

"Without using my name – without using any details of my situation – I want you to see what you can find – in _public records only_ – about past evidence of corruption on the Princeton police force. You could still pass for a college kid. Act like you're writing a paper or something," he suggested. His voice became more certain, unyielding, as he leaned forward across the table, meeting her eyes as he stated, "_No official investigation_. He – they can't know that I've – told _anyone_ about this."

"You think they'd come after you?"

Jenna had not missed his accidental slip, knew already that she was looking for one specific man who had both organized and presided over the attack. In talking with House, however, she deliberately continued to use the plural pronoun.

House shook his head, his expression taut with dread, his voice trembling slightly as he corrected, "I _know_ they'd come after me. And you. And anyone else they thought knew about this."

"Okay," Jenna agreed. "I'll see what I can find, and then report back…to…"

"Me." Wilson spoke up. "Report back to me." When House and Cuddy both looked at him strangely – House's expression holding a hint of amusement – Wilson explained defensively, "You already know my full name and phone number, and it's probably better for now if it stays that way."

House nodded to indicate his approval, though the knowing spark in his eyes did not fade as he gave Wilson a sly glance, making it very clear that he was aware of Wilson's possible ulterior motives. "Yeah. Much better that way," he agreed.

Trying to ignore his friend, Wilson looked at Jenna and continued, "Just bring me anything that might be relevant. Most of all, _don't _talk to anyone about this. Don't use any methods of research that might leave a paper or electronic trail. If you find anything to go on – then we'll go from there. Okay?"

Jenna glanced between House and Wilson, considering for a few moments before she replied. "All right. One question."

"Yes?" House's expression was level, guarded.

"Whatever you did to piss off these cops – whatever made them decide to attack you – do I need to be worried about it?" She waited, then pressed a bit when he did not respond, looking away from her evasively. "Did you hurt anyone? Are you involved in any kind of illegal activities that I might need to be aware of?"

"Yeah. It's all my fault." The disgusted, bitter sound of House's voice nearly made Jenna flinch. "I brought the entire thing on myself."

"That's not what I meant," Jenna gently objected. "I just think I'd rather know, if there's anything shady about this deal…"

"Would you really rather know?" House's deep blue eyes were penetrating, his voice low and sharp-edged. "And what's more – if there was, do you think I'd actually _tell _you?" A cold smirk twisted his mouth as he added, "Then I'd have to kill you, of course, to cover up my deep, dark secret. So would you rather know, or would you rather _live_?"

Jenna felt her heartbeat quicken at the soft, vaguely dangerous sound of his voice, and her mouth went dry. She couldn't find the words to form an answer. There was something dark and furious – and breathtakingly vulnerable – in House's intent, unfathomable gaze – but Jenna couldn't quite read the complex motives there. She was fairly certain that he wasn't _actually_ a threat to her – but she was just uncertain enough to send a thrill of fear down her spine.

Across the room, Cuddy rose to her feet in alarm, hesitating over the idea of actually approaching, unsure where House was headed with the uncharacteristic menace in his words. She didn't know what was causing such a strong reaction to what should have been a very simple question, and she thought she should do something to diffuse the situation before Jenna ran screaming to the nearest police station.

Wilson was closer.

"_House_!" he snapped, alarmed by the fear he saw in Jenna's eyes.

House flinched, his demeanor instantly shifting at the sharp sound of his friend's voice, backing off immediately, sitting back in his chair with his eyes focused on the table in front of him. Wilson's guilt at House's reaction was obvious in his eyes, and his voice softened as he turned toward Jenna, reaching out a hand to touch her arm as he earnestly held her gaze and rushed to explain.

"He's messing with you, Jenna. He hasn't hurt anyone; he _wouldn't_." He paused, casting an apologetic glance in House's direction as he added in a soft but pointed tone, "He didn't do anything wrong."

Jenna's fears melted away at the genuine concern she heard in Wilson's voice. She knew there was a lot they weren't telling her, but her suspicions as to House's intentions had vanished. His evasiveness, and even his eventual hostility, seemed rooted in fear, rather than in any sort of malicious intent.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Then…I guess that's all I needed to know."

House shut down for the brief remainder of Jenna's visit. His eyes barely left the table in front of him, his jaw clenched in his effort to restrain his emotions, and he spoke no more than was necessary. Wilson knew he was embarrassed by his loss of control in front of Jenna, as well as by his reaction of fear to Wilson's sharp tone – and Wilson knew that was partially his own fault…but there was nothing he could do to fix it now.

The damage was done, House's fragile façade shattered by the single, careless gesture from his friend.

Once he had closed the door behind Jenna's retreating form, Wilson turned back toward House, who was now visibly trembling, his pale hands clasped in his lap.

Hesitant, uncertain if he should say anything, Wilson reached out a cautious hand toward House's shoulder, hoping that now, in Jenna's absence, this attempt might be met with more favor than the last had been.

"Touch me and lose an arm."

House's voice was a quiet, warning snarl, his shoulders tensed in an instinctive fight-or-flight reaction. Somehow, Wilson was reminded of a terrified kitten that would hiss and spit, trying to look large and threatening, while convincing no one with its pitiful efforts.

Of course, that was not an observation he would share with House.

Wilson liked having both of his arms.

Completely focused on House, Wilson was startled when Cuddy suddenly stood at House's other side, one arm reaching out to wrap gently around his shoulders. Angry and defensive, House jerked away from her, but she refused to let go, insistently pulling him to her, her gentle arm just barely restraining him.

"Shh," she soothed him. "You gonna take _my_ arm?" Her voice was mild, gently teasing. "Better not. Who'd sign that nice, big severance check?"

House did not laugh, or even smile…but he stopped resisting Cuddy. His body was still tense and trembling, his eyes focused downward. When Cuddy's free hand began to run slowly through his hair, House finally relented, turning his face toward her, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the firm, flat plane of her stomach. Reluctantly, he raised his right hand to rest against the small of her back, letting out a slow, shaky sigh.

"It's all right," Cuddy whispered. "It's not your fault, House."

"It is," he insisted, his voice hoarse and aching. "You don't understand…it is…"

Wilson watched them for a few moments, feeling like an intruder – unwelcome, unnecessary…and guilty. His own sudden reaction had set off this latest crisis; he was to blame for House's current state of suffering.

"Sorry" was a useless word, and his touch would be rejected – so Wilson silently turned and walked out the door.

Cuddy watched him go with silent, helpless concern.

House had to be her priority right now.

Holding him close, trying to surround him with comfort and reassurance, Cuddy repeated firmly, "None of this is your fault, House. _None._ You are not to blame for what he did to you."

"I asked for it."

Cuddy felt icy tendrils creep around her heart as she heard the disgust, the hatred in House's voice – all directed at himself.

"No," she insisted softly. "You didn't. You didn't want any of this, House. Nothing you did gave him the right to _touch_ you. You did _not_ ask for…"

"You don't know," he argued, shaking his head slowly against her, his voice a quiet, tremulous moan. "You weren't there. And I _did _– I – I _asked_ for it…"

_After the last of Tritter's cohorts had finished the violent assault on his mouth, House fell forward onto the floor, retching, gagging, struggling not to vomit up their vile spendings onto the floor. He wanted to die. He felt so corrupted, so sick with shame at the way they had used him, at the knowledge that a part of them was _inside_ him – and the certainty that he would _never_ be clean again._

_Using the belt around House's throat, Tritter jerked House's head up again, noting his attempt to hide from what was happening to him… and refusing to allow it. House tensed, fighting off panic, shaking violently, but willingly moving with Tritter's grip – terrified that if he showed any resistance, Tritter would find an even more vicious punishment for his defiance._

"_He looks like he could take some more – doesn't he, boys?" Tritter sneered. "Look at him! He's literally gagging for it!"_

_House's face was hot with bitter shame as the men laughed._

"_He wants more. Don't you, House?" Tritter's voice lowered to a near-whisper as he addressed his captive._

_House wilted under the focused attention of his tormentor, a shudder passing through him as Tritter forcibly turned his head so that they were face-to-face, inches apart. House knew better than to look away by now, and Tritter smirked, pleased with the success of his own efforts to break the other man._

"_Tell them," he urged him softly with a malicious, leading smile. "Tell them how bad you want it, you filthy…little…_slut_."_

_House had no choice. There was no possibility besides complete obedience. His eyes downcast, he barely managed to get out a hoarse, breathless whisper._

"_I…w-want it…"_

"_Look at me!" Tritter shook him, and House winced in pain, his eyes darting back up to Tritter's face in automatic obedience. Tritter's voice softened as he asked again, "What do you want, House? Tell me."_

_Humiliated, broken beyond resistance, House whispered the response he knew Tritter wanted from him, though the thought sickened him. The words were barely audible._

"_I want…t-to…to g-get you off again…"_

"_How?" Tritter pressed, his eyes glittering with malicious anticipation, greedily drinking in his victim's humiliation._

_House stammered over the words, hardly able to bring himself to speak them. The small part of his mind that was still thinking rationally, still trying to find a way to get out of this with as little additional damage as possible, settled on the least agonizing option. _

"_I w-want to…to s-suck your cock again…"_

_The men laughed uproariously at the miserable, forced – and utterly false – confession. House fought back tears, disgusted by his own weakness._

"_I knew it," Tritter sneered. "Little slut. Pathetic little whore. You wanted it. You liked it. Didn't you?"_

_House nodded, tears streaking his face. "Yes," he choked out._

"_You want us to do you again – don't you?"_

_House's eyes were wide and pleading, panicked at the thought, and he shook his head desperately. Tritter's warning glare froze the motion in place, turning it instantly into an obedient nod, as House sobbed out a despairing whisper. "Yes."_

"_Beg me to," Tritter demanded. "Beg me to fuck you again._ Beg me."

_His eyes closed, unable to look at Tritter, House whispered in a trembling, devastated voice, utterly hopeless, "F-fuck me again…p-please…"_

_Tritter's men found this unbelievably funny, laughing hysterically while House dissolved into tears of shame and despair. _

"_Please," he sobbed, looking up at Tritter in desperation. "Please, don't…please…no more…"_

_Tritter's response was a sharp backhand across House's face. He held onto the belt around House's neck, holding him up, forcing him to face the savage mockery of his captors. When they had regained their composure enough to hear him again, Tritter finally continued, his voice full of sadistic amusement._

"_See…we'd like to, House. We really would. You turned out to be one fine piece of ass."_

_He smirked at House's flinch, waiting out the snickering laughter of his men before adding in a falsely sympathetic voice, "But the thing is – you're such a dirty, disgusting little slut – been _used_ so many times – we really can't bring ourselves to touch you again. No matter how much you _beg_…"_

_House's shoulders shook with sobs of relief…but then, Tritter ran a hand down his back in a slow, possessive motion that made him shudder with revulsion. Tritter's fist twisted in the belt, drawing House closer to him, hissing words of soft, chilling malice into his ear._

"_I've got another idea, though."_

_House's stomach clenched, quivering with dread. He shook his head in a silent plea, already certain that Tritter's idea was going to be horrific._

_He was not wrong._

"_Don't you think it's about time…" A chill of sheer terror went down House's spine as Tritter motioned for one of his men to hand him House's cane. "…that I returned that thermometer, Dr. House?"_

_Every shred of courage failed him – his face, his will, every part of him crumpling as Tritter brushed the rough wooden tip of the cane against his cheek._

"_I might not want my dick within ten feet of your filth…wouldn't want it to be contaminated…"_

_House flinched as Tritter forced the tip of the cane between his lips. Tritter smiled in satisfaction as House's trembling mouth yielded to the intrusion. He leaned closer, pressing the cane to the back of House's throat, smiling as he choked on it. The detective's voice was a soft, gentle whisper that chilled House's blood._

"…_but that's no reason why I can't still give you what you asked for."_


	24. Chapter 24

"I asked for it

"_I asked for it."_

Cuddy stared down at the top of House's head, cradled against her stomach, stunned by the quiet, devastated confession. She could feel his warm breath against her stomach through the thin fabric of her blouse, felt the slight tremor in it, betraying just how dangerously near he was to tears.

It was surreal, the idea of House so openly broken, despite the undeniable reality she held in her arms.

And worst of all was the realization that he believed it was _his fault_.

She shouldn't have been surprised, she knew. It was textbook rape trauma syndrome; victims always felt that it was their fault, despite the best efforts of the doctors and counselors and loved ones to convince them that it was not. The shame and self-blame was a natural side effect of the trauma experienced by a rape victim. Still, somehow, Cuddy _was_ surprised.

Somehow, she had expected House to be exempt from the rules in this situation, as he seemed to be in so many others.

The trembling fingers fisted in the back of her blouse and the warm wetness slowly seeping through the front of it proved her expectations wrong.

Cuddy tried to back off a bit, but House seemed unwilling to relinquish the sheltering mask of her closeness, clearly unwilling to face her and allow her to see his tears. Though her own eyes were brimming, Cuddy pulled back with gentle insistence, reaching behind her to catch his hands and bring them around in front of her as she sat down on the edge of the bed so that they were face to face.

House's head was bowed, his eyes closed, and he turned his head away slightly, instinctively avoiding the eye contact she sought.

"House," she whispered. "Please…please look at me."

He hesitated, his jaw clenched…but then he reluctantly met her eyes.

She held his gaze, her voice firm and intent as she stated, "You did not ask for this. You did nothing to lead anyone to believe that this was what you wanted." She paused, adding softly, "This was in no way your fault."

House's expression was dull, desolate, and it set a cold ache in Cuddy's stomach – because it was an expression of defeat…and the last thing House needed to do right now was to give up.

"I told them I wanted it," he whispered, staring at the bedspread to her left, so soft that she barely caught the words. "I asked them to do it again."

Cuddy was silent for a long time, stunned and confused by his words, unable to put any sort of logic to them. She could think of no reason why House might say such a thing, ever. The humiliation of the words was clear on his face even now.

_There's no way in the world he would ever_ willingly…

Her breath caught in her throat, understanding dawning on her, and in its wake – dark, deadly fury.

_The rape alone wasn't humiliation enough for Tritter… He had to force him to say… to _ask _them to…_

"House…" Her voice was low and urgent, her hand reaching to cup the back of his head, trying to regain his focus. "…House…look at me…"

He shook his head in refusal, a shudder passing through him, his face dangerously pale. He looked as if he might be physically sick, his eyes lost and distant, focused on the bed, but unseeing. His mind was lost in nightmare visions of horrors already past.

"_House_…" Cuddy reached her other hand to touch his cheek, gently turning his face toward her. He did not resist, seeming a bit disoriented when he looked up at her as she persisted, her voice soft and certain, "…whatever he made you do…or _say_…does _not_ make this your fault – and it does _not _make you deserving of what they did to you. No matter what he forced you to say…do you really think he thought for a second that you _actually wanted_ it?"

House's gaze gradually became focused again, and he looked down, considering. Finally, he shook his head in reluctant agreement. His voice was hoarse, uncertain, as he whispered, "But…"

"No buts," Cuddy cut him off firmly. She was quiet a moment, thinking, before inspiration struck. "If I told you, 'Tell me you'd love to work a month in the clinic or I'll fire you,' and you said it, does that mean you really _want_ to work a month in the clinic?"

A faint spark of amusement touched House's eyes at the reference and the barest hint of a smile graced his mouth as he looked up at her again and pointed out in a quiet, subdued voice, "I think a better question would be, 'Does that mean I'm really _going_ to work a month in the clinic?'"

Cuddy smiled softly, relieved to see even a trace of his old humor shining through – grateful that he could put his pain aside with a joke, if only for a moment.

"Good point."

Her smile faded as she watched the remembrance of his situation return almost as swiftly as it had left, erasing the spark of laughter from his eyes as he looked down again. A hard, painful swallow was visible in his throat as his brow creased in a troubled frown, just before he let out a shaky sigh.

"And the answer is…no," he continued in a voice of quiet resignation. He glanced up again, forcing a smile as he shrugged slightly. "I won't be doing clinic duty ever again – no matter how much you hound me."

She studied his expression for a moment, eyes narrowing with understanding. "You don't want to quit."

House gave her a sharp look, swiftly averting his gaze. "I…don't want to work. Not right now. Not after…what happened…"

"You _do_ want to work, _especially_ now, _because_ of what happened," Cuddy argued, frowning. "Your mind never stops working on overdrive, House, and now more than ever you need to give it a distraction."

"Patients' lives are not 'distractions'," House snapped, growing defensive. "If I use my job to keep my mind off my own situation, someone could die…"

"That's never stopped you before – not once in eight years."

House was silent, having no answer. She had seen through his excuses – but then, his defenses weren't what they usually were at the moment. He lowered his head, stubbornly silent.

Just because she knew he was lying didn't mean he had to tell her the truth.

"Why are you quitting, House?" Cuddy's voice was quiet, pushing gently, her head lowered toward his as she sought his eyes. "I know you don't want to – so why?"

House stood from his chair, turning his back on her, his jaw stubbornly set in refusal to answer. He did not move or make a sound for a long, tense moment.

Trying to keep her impatience from her voice – and failing – Cuddy pressed, "_House_…"

House turned his head toward her, not quite looking at her as he abruptly cut her off, his voice quiet and terse, brittle not quite to the point of breaking. "I _am_ quitting. That's all you need to know. Anything more than that is irrelevant, and, frankly – none of your business."

Cuddy froze, her lips parted in preparation for a protest that she could no longer form. She felt vaguely hurt by his statement, his inability to confide in her, though why exactly she should be surprised by it, she didn't know. She _did_ know that she could not press the issue – not now.

House was right.

He had a right to his secrets.

In a move that Cuddy suspected was about equal parts concern and evasion, House suddenly looked up, glancing around the room with a puzzled frown. As if he had only just noticed his friend's absence, he tilted his head to the side and gave her a questioning look as he asked, "Where's Wilson?"

Cuddy sighed, accepting the subject change. "He left a little while ago. I think he wanted to give us some…some privacy."

House gave the door a dubious look, muttering under his breath in a tone that was equal parts annoyance and affection, "Wanted to flounce away and pout like a little girl's more like it."

"He's trying really hard, House…"

"_Too_ hard."

"He…he just wants to be able to _do_ something…and…and it's hard, and confusing, and…"

"I know," House snapped, glaring at her in frustration. "I'm kinda _there_, you know?"

Cuddy sighed, sympathetic eyes meeting his as she nodded. "I know." She paused a moment, her eyes following his to the door again. "He's probably…right outside there, if you…want to talk to him…"

"I never _want_ to talk to him," House reminded her, rolling his eyes as he limped back to his chair and wearily sat down leaning his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands. His voice was piercingly sarcastic as he continued. "_I_ just want to hang out. _He's_ the one always pushing me to open up about my feelings when I don't need to, and I'm the one sitting back and laughing at him and calling him a girl. Why should I change now, when we've got such a lovely system in place already?"

Cuddy watched him for a moment, silently willing him to relent.

Resigning herself to the fact that he wasn't going to, she rose to her feet, stopping momentarily behind his chair on the way to the door. She hesitated just a moment before resting a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently – relieved and reassured when he did not pull away. There was no accusation in her words – just a gentle suggestion.

"You know…if you're looking for a distraction…it might help to think…just a _little_ bit…about what _he_ needs."

House did not raise his head, did not move or respond at all – and Cuddy left him to his thoughts. She removed her hand from his shoulder and stepped out the door into the hallway.

Just as she had expected, Wilson was waiting in the hall.

Wilson unconsciously mirrored House's pose, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. When Cuddy closed the door behind her, he glanced up. Visibly disappointed to see her, Wilson turned his head with a sigh, staring morosely at the wall in front of him.

Without a word, Cuddy walked past him and sat down beside him, drawing her knees up in front of her and wrapping her arms around them, looking straight ahead and just waiting for him to speak first.

When he did, his voice was tired and a little timid, as if he barely dared to ask the question.

"How…how is he?"

Cuddy gave him a mildly exasperated look, rolling her eyes. "You didn't scare him into a heart attack, if that's what you mean." One good look at Wilson's face, however, had her softening, reaching out a hand to rest on his hand over his knee. "You didn't do anything wrong, Wilson. All you did was snap at him and startle him – which is…understandable, considering that he was starting to make Jenna think we were something akin to the Manson family."

Wilson looked despondent as he lowered his head again. "It was stupid," he remarked quietly. "I should know by now to be careful around him. And…and not to touch him. He doesn't want me to touch him, so I shouldn't even…" He shook his head, his voice trailing off. "I just…need to be more careful…"

"I think you need to be _less _careful."

He looked up at her, puzzled and incredulous. "What? How can you say that? You saw what just happened in there, right? I said his name a little too loudly, and he nearly jumped through the ceiling, and then retreated into himself for the rest of the time Jenna was here…"

Cuddy nodded as she smoothly interrupted, "And if you'd gone on as if nothing had happened, he probably would have been just fine about two seconds later." She was quiet a moment, allowing him to absorb those words. She continued at last, her voice soft and patient. "I think maybe it wasn't so much the snapping that made him retreat, as…the attention that was drawn to it."

Wilson's eyes widened slightly with understanding as he looked up at her, thoughtful. "He retreated because he was embarrassed. And…and I contributed to that…" He cringed at the memory. "I keep forgetting, this is _House_ we're dealing with here…"

Cuddy nodded. "Backwards logic must apply."

"He wasn't upset about the yelling. He was upset about the kid gloves treatment afterward."

Cuddy nodded again. "He doesn't like to feel like he's being coddled or patronized. He'd rather things just go on as normal."

Wilson considered that for a moment, before answering in a weary, troubled voice, "But… things _aren't_ normal. I can't just ignore it when I happen to raise my voice without meaning to, and he ends up cowering in a corner. How am I supposed to act like everything's normal when it's not?"

"I'm not saying don't be careful," Cuddy clarified. "By all means, try not to snap at him again, and certainly don't try to touch him until he lets you know it's okay. Right now, we have no idea what might be triggering his memories of the attack, and we don't want to give him any more flashbacks than he's going to be having anyway." She paused a moment before continuing gently, waiting until Wilson met her eyes again.

"But…if you _do_ slip up…which you're going to do…don't act like it's the end of the world. Don't treat him like he's helpless. Just – go on, you know? Try to let him pretend that no one's noticed."

Wilson frowned. "That's not what _you_ do," he pointed out.

"No," Cuddy admitted, hesitating over the words as she formed her response. "But…I'm a woman. The rules are slightly different. He's probably not going to freak out if I touch him, because in general, he doesn't associate a woman's touch with what happened to him. He needs comfort, even if he doesn't want to accept it – and he kind of expects it from a woman more than from a man. He needs it, and coming from _me_, he'll actually take it. It's more…acceptable, to him."

Wilson was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, timid, and heartbreakingly insecure.

"What…what does he need from _me_?"

Cuddy gave him a sympathetic smile as she squeezed his hand. "The same thing he's always needed, Wilson. He just needs you to be there for him – like you always have been." She was quiet a moment before asking, "Who was the first person he went to, when this happened, Wilson? Who was the only person he trusted enough to tell about this – to protect his secret, when he didn't want anyone else to ever know?"

Wilson rolled his eyes, not fully convinced, and a little embarrassed by her observations. "Me," he admitted.

"He trusts you. It might not look like it right now, but he does." Cuddy gave him an encouraging smile when he turned doubtful eyes toward her. "He knows that no matter what happens, he can count on you to be there for him. And…when he's ready…he'll let you in a little more." In a gentle, non-judgmental tone identical to the one she had used with House, she concluded, "I know you need to feel needed, Wilson. You need to know that what you're doing for him matters – but for now, you need to stop worrying so much about what _you_ need…and focus on what _he_ needs."

A self-deprecating grimace crossed Wilson's face at her accurate assessment, and he lowered his head with an apologetic nod. "You're right," he sighed. "Of course you're right. This is about House. I can't let my…my ego and my neuroses get in the way of that."

"Just be his friend," Cuddy reiterated in a mild, soothing voice. "That's the best thing you can do for House right now."

Wilson nodded, squaring his shoulders slightly in a way that told Cuddy he was encouraged, and ready to try again. She smiled to herself in satisfaction as she rose to her feet, holding out a hand to help him rise as well. Wilson eyed her hand with a teasingly dubious look before meeting her eyes with, finally, laughter in his own; they were both well aware that she was not strong enough to actually pull him to his feet.

Still, he gave her his right hand, supporting most of his weight on his left as he stood up. He gave her a grateful smile as she nodded toward the door to the hotel room, a question in her eyes.

He nodded, releasing her hand as they turned and walked back together to the door – and the uncharted challenges that lay beyond it.


	25. Chapter 25

"I'm…not so sure this is a good idea

"I'm…not so sure this is a good idea."

House's voice was hesitant, his steps slow and uncertain as he followed Wilson and Cuddy to her car. Halfway across the parking lot, he stopped completely, glancing uneasily around before taking a step backward. When Cuddy turned back toward him, he met her gaze with pleading eyes.

"Maybe we should just…"

"…hide in a hotel room for the rest of your life?" She raised an eyebrow as she threaded her arm through his and led him on toward the car.

House shrugged. "Works for Wilson."

Wilson gave him a false smile, nodding slightly from where he waited by the car, fingertips drumming idly on the roof of it. "Cute."

House smiled, pleased with himself. "I thought so."

"Don't make me pull this car over, boys," Cuddy teased as she opened the door on the front passenger side for House. She hesitated for a moment, an exaggerated frown on her face as she added, "Wait a second… Isn't the drive supposed to actually _start _before I have to say things like that?"

"This particular drive isn't supposed to start at all," House muttered, even as he got into the car. "I'm supposed to be rotting my brain on daytime television in my nice, comfy hotel room…"

"Which happens to cost 200 a night," Wilson reminded him from the backseat as Cuddy got in and started the car. "You can't go back to your apartment, not yet. But you can't just stay at a hotel indefinitely. We need to find a more permanent arrangement, House. You know that."

"What makes this apartment any safer than my own apartment?" House demanded, irritable and defensive.

Wilson immediately countered, "What makes our completely un-secure hotel where just anyone can walk in at any time any safer than _any_ apartment?"

"Gee, thanks, Wilson. You're so encouraging and supportive. I'll enjoy those nightmares tonight very much, thank you. What would I do without you?" House's tone was light, and he was smiling, but the fear beneath the sarcasm was obvious to both his companions.

Wilson winced, and Cuddy caught his eye in the rearview mirror, trying to communicate with her eyes, to remind him that this was _House_, and therefore hurtful, inappropriate comments were to be expected. Apparently, her message came across, because Wilson forced a smile as he shot back a response at his friend.

"Or, you could just bypass the now unappealing idea of going back to the hotel altogether, and spend the night in your nice, new apartment."

Cuddy took that chance to interject, "This place is really safe, House. I've lived there before, and their security is amazing. Nobody gets into the complex without signing in, and there's constant video surveillance…armed guards…"

"Ooh, security guards, really?" House gave her a falsely bright smile. "That makes me feel so much better about the trained, armed _cop_ that'll be coming after me."

Biting back the impatient retort that rose to her lips, Cuddy pointed out, "The fact that there'd be exact records of when and where he was on the property should be enough of a deterrent to keep Tritter away."

"'Should be'," House echoed. "Well, okay, then. I feel better now."

"We don't have a perfect option, House." Cuddy couldn't help the slightly sharp note that crept into her tone. It was just so frustrating to have him shoot down every attempt they made to provide comfort. Her voice softened slightly as she added, "But among our many imperfect options…this is probably the best."

House was quiet for a few moments, strangely subdued by her words, a brief flash of regret in his eyes before he turned his face away, toward the window.

Wilson had rarely seen House chagrined by his own behavior, though he had often wished to see just an ounce of gratitude, or appreciation, for the many times he had gone out of his way to help his friend. Somehow, however, now that House _did_ seem to recognize the lengths to which his friends were going to help him, his quiet acceptance seemed somehow…_wrong_.

The humility Wilson had long wished to see in House was now just another evidence of how thoroughly Tritter had broken him.

"I don't want a new apartment. I like _my_ apartment."

When House spoke again, his voice full of soft resentment, Wilson felt his heart break a little more. It was so terribly unfair, so wrong that because of the violation Tritter had committed, House had to give up everything that was familiar and comfortable to him, just to feel some semblance of safety.

_He shouldn't have to move… should be able to keep the apartment he's lived in for fifteen years and knows every inch of, instead of being forced out of his home by that…_

Sudden inspiration struck, and Wilson shrugged, his expression brightening with the brilliance of his plan.

Of course…the plan was only brilliant if House would actually go for it.

Fighting off his own insecurities, Wilson plunged forward. He would never know unless he asked.

"So what?" he addressed House's remark, hoping his voice did not betray his nervousness. "It's just temporary, anyway."

House frowned. "What do you mean, temporary?"

"You can keep your apartment…just get the new one, too…so that whenever we take Tritter down, and you don't have to worry about security so much anymore, you can move back in." He paused, adding with another shrug, "Rent on two apartments is still cheaper than paying for a hotel room indefinitely."

House's frown deepened, and he raised a single, dubious brow as he turned in his seat to look Wilson in the eye. "Yeah," he drawled in a flat, subtly scornful voice. "I can just pay rent on two apartments instead of one, with the nice, steady income I'll be getting from _unemployment_."

"I'll pay for one of them," Wilson suggested casually, slightly fearful that House might refuse his offer – and with that refusal, confirm Wilson's suspicions that, at the moment, he was unneeded and unwanted in his friend's life.

House's eyes widened, stunned by the offer. "I can't let you just…pay my rent, Wilson," he said quietly, shaking his head as he looked away. "I'm not _that_ pathetic. Yet."

"Who said anything about _your_ rent?" Wilson scoffed, keeping his tone light and casual. "Dream on, House." He paused for dramatic effect before adding with a sly smile, "I won't be paying a single penny over my half."

"Your…_half_?" House was still puzzled, not quite sure what his friend was suggesting.

Wilson just smiled at him, giving him some time to figure it out. When he saw understanding beginning in House's eyes, he added, "Like I said…rent on an apartment…two, even…_is_ cheaper than renting a hotel room. You'd be doing me a favor." He paused. "_Roomie_." He waited a moment for the words to sink in, before nervously launching into an explanation that was, at that point, unnecessary; House already got it. "So…I'd pay for your old apartment, and you'd pay for the new one…and I'd stay in the new one…with you…"

House gave a sideways half-nod as he amended, "You'd better pay for the new one, don't you think? It'll cost more, with the extra security and newer facilities…and what with you being the one who's still employed and all…"

Wilson allowed relief to show on his face. "Of course," he readily agreed. "That's only fair."

He was too happy to care how pathetic it made him, and how brutally House would be throwing it in his face later. House was willing to share an apartment with him – even seemed _happy_ about the idea – and was even going so far as to manipulate Wilson into paying the greater part of the bill.

Most people would have been utterly lost as to why that last detail was a _good_ thing.

To Wilson, it just meant that, as far as his friendship with House was concerned, everything was back to normal.

Miraculously, the apartment complex Cuddy had chosen had an open unit, available immediately.

After a long guided tour of the grounds – focused, at Cuddy's leading, on the various security features of the complex – and another argument during which House almost backed out of the arrangement – the papers were finally signed, and the apartment was theirs.

The rest of the day was spent transporting what possessions House would need from one apartment to the other. The new apartment was furnished, which made the task considerably easier than they had expected. Two or three loads filling up Cuddy's and Wilson's cars were enough to finish the job. House had decided to leave a lot of things in the old apartment, since eventually he planned to come back to it, anyway.

Most of Wilson's things were in storage, besides what he needed on a daily basis, so it was an easy task to carry his belongings from his hotel room to the apartment.

Late into the evening, the three of them were still unpacking boxes from House's apartment…and House was in a better mood than either Cuddy or Wilson had seen him since the attack. It seemed that having a project to work on helped to keep his mind off other, darker subjects.

_Which is why he needs to keep working._

Cuddy frowned as she watched him pulling Wilson's books out of a box one at a time, adding them to the bookshelf where his own already were, but not before making mocking comments about the neurotic-ness, or girliness, or sheer stupidity of each.

_As long as he has something to work on…something to occupy his mind…he'll be okay, for a while…but once the unpacking is done…if all he has to do is sit here in this apartment and brood over what's happened…to remember every detail over and over again…_

House caught her looking, and pulled a funny face in her direction. She looked away with an absent smile that she didn't even begin to feel, as the circle of her thoughts came to a troubling conclusion.

…_he'll lose his mind. If House resigns from the hospital…he might not make it through this at all._

It was after one in the morning when they finally finished setting up the new apartment. It was sparsely decorated, and a bit bare. After all, Wilson and Cuddy had insisted, it was only for a few months at the most – only long enough to gather enough evidence to get Tritter convicted, and ensure that he would no longer pose a threat to House, or anyone else.

House silently resigned himself to the fact that he would _never_ be moving back into his old apartment, no matter what his friends thought.

He knew better than to think that Tritter could be stopped.

Cuddy went home around 1:30, and Wilson made sure House was comfortable in his room before retiring to his own for the night. Physically, House was healing rather quickly from his injuries and the surgery they had required; but he was still in a fair bit of pain, still had to move slowly and carefully in order to avoid jarring his still-healing body.

Wilson left a glass of water on the nightstand next to House's bottle of Vicodin, his cell phone, a couple of magazines, and the television remote control. Once House was in bed for the night, he didn't want him to have to get up again until the morning.

Of course, all Wilson's care and concern could not ensure a restful night's sleep.

At three o'clock, House was still lying in bed, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling – willing himself not to see the dark images his mind persisted in calling to remembrance. The room was cool, but he was sweating, his heart racing, his mouth dry as he struggled to maintain control over his fears.

_He can't get in here…you're safe…Wilson's right in the next room…and he doesn't know you've said anything…he has no way to know…you're safe…you're safe here… _

He didn't believe a word of it.

Another voice echoed in his mind, a low voice full of calm, controlled menace.

_I can get to you anywhere, House…no one can protect you from me… There's _nowhere_ you can go where you'll be safe from_ me…

_That _voice, House couldn't help but believe.

A quiet vibration against the nightstand made him jump, his heart in his throat as his eyes turned to see that he was receiving a call. His cell phone was set to silent, but the light on its screen was flashing, and it moved in short, rhythmic jerks against the stand where it lay. House frowned, wondering who would be calling him at three in the morning. Usually such calls could only be emergencies – but he no longer worked at the hospital.

He picked up the phone, flipping it open to glance at the screen.

_Blocked call._

He swallowed hard, a queasy sensation in his stomach as he stared at the words on the screen.

There was only one person who might call him at this hour and block his number to prevent it from showing up on House's call register – and that person was not someone House wanted to talk to.

He waited, heart pounding in his ears, until the phone stopped vibrating in his hand. It remained lit for a few seconds more before going dark – and still House just sat there, holding it, stunned and unsettled by the strange call.

When the phone vibrated again in a short, staccato burst, House started, flipping it open to read the screen again.

_One new message_.

His hand trembled as he pressed one and raised the phone to his ear, his other hand white-knuckled, gripping the side of the mattress as he waited through the recording.

"_You have…one…unheard…message. The following message has not been heard. Tuesday…three-oh-four…a.m."_

Time ceased around House, nothing existing but him, and the soft, familiar voice echoing in his ears in a tone that was both mocking and vaguely threatening.

"I know you're awake…and I know you knew it was me. Now, the first thing you're going to do is, you're going to delete this message. The second thing you're going to do…is wait for me to call again. And the next time I call…you're going to answer."

"_To replay this message…press…seven…to delete…press…nine…to save it in your archives…press…"_

His fingers were trembling so hard that House could barely press the key, but somehow he managed to find it, hurriedly making his choice – which was no choice at all, really, in his mind.

"_Message…deleted…"_

He could already hear Wilson's voice in his head, railing about how that was evidence he had just erased – how they could have used that message to prove that Tritter had at the very least used unlawful intimidation against House.

Not that he intended to tell Wilson about the call at all.

_Wilson already knows too much…and if anything happened to him…_

House cringed as the phone began to vibrate again, knowing that he would not mention this call, or the preceding one, to Wilson or Cuddy or anyone. If either of them got hurt because of his failure to obey Tritter's orders, House would never forgive himself.

Breathless, heart racing, terrified to answer the phone and terrified not to, House finally made his decision. Before he could change his mind, he pressed the green button on the keypad and held the phone to his ear, speaking into it in a weak, tremulous whisper.

"H-hello?"


	26. Chapter 26

"H-hello

"H-hello?"

House sat on the edge of his bed, breathless, his heart pounding in his ears as he waited for the voice that haunted his nightmares to enter his reality once more. Shaking, his entire body taut with dread, his left hand trembled as he held the phone to his ear.

"Enjoying your new apartment, Dr. House?"

House's mouth opened to respond, but he could not find the words. He wasn't exactly _surprised_ that Tritter knew he had moved out of his apartment – in fact, he had rather expected it. Still, the knowledge sent a shiver of apprehension down his spine, and he couldn't draw breath.

_Where is he? Can he see me? Is he watching?_

House's eyes darted around the darkened bedroom, and he glanced toward the window and its tightly drawn curtains, both wanting to go and look outside – and terrified to do so.

"That's a nice neighborhood, House – those Quandt Avenue Apartments. Very safe. Police can get there in about five minutes if they need to. They hardly ever need to, but you know…just in case…"

House could hear the shrug in Tritter's casual voice, and the suggestion in his words made House's mouth go dry. He swallowed hard, his throat aching with the effort as he struggled to find his voice.

"Wh-what do you want?" he finally managed to get out.

Tritter's voice hardened as he replied without hesitation, "I want you to shut your mouth and listen for a change. Think you can handle that?"

House's stomach lurched, and he uselessly nodded again. "Yes," he whispered.

"You know, I'm surprised that a man like you has such good friends, House," Tritter went on, a sly note to his voice. "Of course, I've known that for a while – since your boss lied for you to get you off. How many times did you have to screw her to get her to do _that_ for you?"

As often as he made his own derogatory sexual comments about Cuddy, House found himself mentally defending the woman who, over the past few days, had proven to be a much better friend than he had ever realized. He wanted to protest, but couldn't find the courage to argue.

"Yeah…like the judge said, you've got better friends than you deserve." Tritter paused for impact, his voice softening with menace as he added, "Maybe I ought to remind them how dangerous being friends with you can be."

House's stomach clenched, his forehead breaking out in a cold sweat. "Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Please…don't hurt them…"

"That's up to you, isn't it, House?" Tritter reminded him coolly, a deceptive gentleness in his voice. He paused a moment, allowing the words to sink in before he asked softly, "How much have you told them?"

House fought off a sense of panic at the question, torn between the knowledge that in order to protect his friends, he would have to lie to Tritter – and the belief that if he _did_ lie to Tritter, the man would surely _know _he was lying, and he would only succeed in making things worse – for himself _and_ his friends.

"Nothing," he whispered immediately, struggling to control his breathing, aware that any hesitation or change in his voice would give him away. "They don't know anything. They… they know that I was…a-attacked, but… but they don't have any idea…who, or…or anything like that."

Tritter was absolutely silent, and House felt his stomach drop.

_He knows… oh, God, he_ knows… _he's going to kill us… shouldn't have opened my big mouth at all… shouldn't have told them anything… oh, God,_ no…

His mind raced, searching for a way out of the situation. House knew he had only a very slim chance, and that was to lie, and hope that Tritter believed him. If Tritter knew that he was lying, they were all dead – but they were also all dead if he told the truth.

"Please," he whispered. "Please…I'm telling the truth. I didn't… didn't tell them anything…" House's voice broke over the words, desperate as he added, "Please, you've _got_ to believe me…"

"You think I don't know when you're lying to me, House?" There was a subtle menace in Tritter's quiet voice. "You think I can't tell?"

"I'm not," House insisted desperately, his voice rising slightly in his panic. "Please, I'm _not_!"

"I know if you are or not," Tritter stated calmly, and House could hear the smirk in his voice. "And just know that _if _you're lying to me, House… you're _gonna_ pay for it. You, and everybody you care about." He paused, cold mockery in his voice as he added, "I realize that's a short list, but that just makes it easier for me to make you pay, doesn't it?"

"Please," House whispered, his terrified mind unable to formulate any other words. He was vaguely aware of how pathetic he sounded – vaguely ashamed of it, even – but he couldn't think of anything else to say, only able to repeat his desperate plea over and over. "Please, _please_…"

"Calm down, Dr. House," Tritter advised, his tone cold and taunting. "If you're telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about, do you?"

Realizing that his own behavior was giving him away, House struggled to calm himself. "I… I know," he replied shakily. "It's just… I'm afraid you… you won't believe me…" He held his breath, trying not to sound as on the verge of panic as he actually was.

_Please believe me, please believe me, please believe me…_

"I _know_," Tritter informed him softly. "This isn't a guessing game, House. I _know_ if you're telling me the truth or not. And trust me…" Tritter's voice lowered to barely over a whisper, sending a shiver down House's spine. "…if you're lying to me, it's going to be a lot worse for you _and_ your friends than if you just tell me the truth…"

House felt his courage wilting under the threatening power of the calm, controlled voice. His mind flashed back again and again to terrifying scenes from the assault, and he raised a trembling hand to cover his face, drawing in his breath in a shaky gasp. His traumatized instincts were screaming at him to confess, to tell Tritter the truth.

_He already knows… he knows, and he's gonna kill us, and it's gonna be worse if I don't tell him the truth… I've got to tell, got to…_

"Who are you talking to?"

House jumped, looking up toward the doorway with a trapped expression on his face.

Wilson was standing there.

House froze, unable to respond in any way. His ordinarily sharp mind was too shaken to think of an appropriate reaction to this sudden change in the situation. Wilson's face bore a suspicious frown, his head tilted speculatively as he crossed the room to House's bed. As soon as Wilson was close enough to see House in the darkness of the room, the look on his friend's face gave the truth away.

There was a knowing spark in Wilson's eyes, his jaw clenched with barely restrained rage as he abruptly took the phone from House's hand, and House made no move to stop him.

"Who is this?" Wilson demanded into the phone.

House was sitting close enough to hear that Tritter did not respond at all. He waited, his heart pounding with terror, uncertain as to whether or not what Wilson had done would make things better or worse. He noticed through his panic that, although Wilson clearly knew who was on the phone, he had had presence of mind enough to feign ignorance.

"If you think you're going to get away with this, you're wrong," Wilson snapped, his voice trembling with anger. "We're going to find out who you are, and you're going to pay for what you've done!"

Once again, Wilson's remarks were met with silence.

"Do _not_ call this number again," Wilson ordered coldly, disconnecting the call.

House looked up at him sharply, his eyes riveted onto the phone as Wilson checked the call history, swearing softly in frustration when he saw that the last call was blocked, then turned it off and stuck it into his own pocket. House was shaking violently, his hands clutching the side of the mattress, as his wide, shell-shocked eyes met Wilson's.

All he could think about was how furious Tritter would be that he had been hung up on.

Wilson's expression softened, although his dark eyes still glittered with outraged fury as he crouched in front of House, deliberately placing himself in a nonthreatening position to avoid further unsettling his shaken, terrified friend.

"What did he say to you?" Wilson asked softly, his hands twitching slightly with his desire to reach out to House, though he managed to restrain himself, aware that touching his friend would serve only to increase his terror. "House… what _was_ that?"

House just shook his head, unable to speak.

"I'll kill him," Wilson muttered, eyes narrowed. "We're going to get your number changed first thing tomorrow…"

"It won't help," House whispered, despairing. "He'll find the new number… I know he will, and he'll just be angry at me for changing it…"

"No," Wilson argued. "He'll know I insisted, after that conversation just now. And I made sure I sounded as if I didn't have a clue who he is. Did you catch that?" Despite his anger and concern, Wilson sounded somewhat pleased with himself for his quick thinking.

House nodded, silently grateful for Wilson's convincing ruse, which had probably saved him from incurring Tritter's wrath. Still, with Tritter's threats echoing in his mind, he couldn't help but be afraid. He was certain that Tritter would find a way to punish him because Wilson had hung up on him.

"I…I need my phone," he whispered, not meeting Wilson's eyes. "I need you to give it back to me…"

Wilson's eyes softened in sympathy as he slowly, patiently replied, "No… no, you don't. You don't have to put up with his harassment, House. He's trying to keep you under his thumb, and you don't have to let him do it."

"Just give me my damn phone," House snapped, raising his voice, glaring down at his friend as he held out a shaking palm expectantly.

Behind the anger in his eyes, there was fear, and it only served to make Wilson angrier at Tritter. "I can't do that, House," Wilson gently insisted. "We can't let him keep doing this to you…"

"We can't _stop_ him!" House snapped, rolling his eyes and blinking away frustrated tears as he went on, "You don't understand, Wilson. It doesn't matter if we turn off the phone or change the number, or move to the other side of the freakin' country! He'll find a way to get to me… to _us_. There's nowhere that's safe from him… nowhere he can't get to me…"

_House lay there on his stomach on the floor of the cabin, his hands cuffed behind his back again. He tried not to move, or breathe – because every breath was agony, even the slightest motion tearing ruthlessly through his damaged body. He was vaguely aware of Tritter and his men talking around him – laughing and congratulating each other, then speaking softly in conspiratorial tones. _

_Tritter brutally jerked House to his feet by the belt still around his neck, the motion silencing his cry of agony. He could barely stay on his feet, and Tritter ended up supporting most of House's weight with a bruising grip on his right arm. When House stumbled on the way out the door, Tritter grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, snarling pitilessly in his ear._

"_You'd better keep up, House… You don't want to get on my bad side again, do you?"_

_House cringed, shaking his head emphatically, gasping for breath against the tight leather that choked him._

_The fact that this time he was not blindfolded frightened House; maybe they did not intend to allow him the opportunity to identify them. Three of the men stayed behind, presumably to clean up the mess that had been made, while another got into the driver's seat of a nondescript black car parked next to the dark blue sedan that had brought him there._

_Tritter pushed House, still naked and utterly vulnerable, into the backseat, which was covered by two thick blankets, clearly to avoid leaving any evidence on the car itself. Tritter followed behind him, climbing in next to him on the backseat, never releasing his grip on House's arm. _

_They drove for a long time, and House's terror increased as he realized that they were getting farther and farther from civilization – not that the cabin where they had assaulted him was anywhere resembling civilization. While the driver stared straight ahead, focused on the road, Tritter kept up a continuous monologue of menace in House's ear, enjoying the reaction of terror he invoked in his victim._

"_Have you ever felt so helpless in your life, Dr. House?" he asked in a low whisper, his hot breath sending a shudder through House's body. Tritter ran a hand across his bare stomach, deliberately squeezing the bruised, sensitive flesh as he leaned in closer and hissed, "Knowing that your life is completely in my hands? No one to help you… nowhere to run… You're mine, House…" He paused a moment, shaking House slightly as he added in a leading voice, "Isn't that right?"_

_House nodded without hesitation, unable to find even a shred of resistance left within himself. "Y-yes," he choked out, barely able to speak._

"_If I decide to let you live," Tritter continued, "you think there's anything you can do to get back at me? Anything you can do to stop me from doing all of this over again –_ any… time… I… want? _You gonna go to the police, House?" he sneered. "Like they'd believe you over me – a drug addict who just recently got off on felony charges. Nobody'd believe it."_

_House felt his heart sink, believing that Tritter spoke the truth. _

_Whether the man chose to let him live, or to take him to some remote location and end his life – there was no doubt in his mind that Tritter would get away with it. There was nowhere to turn for help, no one who would even believe his story. _

_House's last hope slipped away with the knowledge that, although he had won the courtroom battle…there was no doubt that Tritter was going to win the war._


	27. Chapter 27

Jenna lay on her twin bed in the tiny bedroom of her apartment, huddled under a blanket because, for the third time this winter, the heat was barely working at all

Jenna lay on her twin bed in the tiny bedroom of her apartment, huddled under a blanket because, for the third time this winter, the heat was barely working at all. Her laptop was in front of her, fingers stiff and trembling with cold, backspacing and retyping half the characters she entered on the keyboard.

_At least winter's almost over…_

She pulled up _Google_, and entered the words, _"Dr. James Wilson"_.

Several items came up, mostly medical journal articles written by the handsome young doctor. There were a few news items of interest, however – stories on speeches he had given at medical conferences, classes he had taught.

_Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital…_

The hospital's website featured a detailed directory of the medical staff. The names were in alphabetical order, so Jenna immediately scrolled to the bottom of the page. She easily found Wilson's picture, indulging a smile at the vaguely goofy, convincing-yet-artificial smile he sported in the photograph. It brought to mind the awkward version of Wilson she had first met in the hallway outside his first hotel room.

When she realized that she had lingered an awfully long time over that one picture, Jenna scrolled back up toward the top of the page, looking more carefully for the other two people she had met. There was of course no guarantee that House or Lisa had any connection to Dr. Wilson's workplace, but there was enough of a chance that it bore investigation.

Sure enough, near the top of the page was a smiling photograph of the woman Jenna had seen in the hotel room.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy," she murmured aloud as she scanned the photo, taking in the details of the woman's professional appearance. Her eyes widened when she noted the title beneath the name. "Dean of Medicine?"

Further perusal of the faculty page revealed that House was on the hospital staff as well.

_Gregory House, M.D. – Head of Diagnostics Division…_

"You _are_ a doctor," she muttered, a triumphant smile on her face. "I knew it."

She returned to Google and looked up _"Gregory House"_.

"Hmm," she mused aloud. "You're the popular one, aren't you, Dr. House?"

There were at least twice as many items on House as she had found on Wilson – and most of them were _about_ him, rather than published _by_ him. It seemed that Dr. House's practice of medicine was quite controversial. Over the years of his employment at PPTH, he had been involved in nearly a dozen different civil lawsuits – but that was not what caught Jenna's attention.

_Controversial Physician Charged with Dealing Drugs…_

Jenna raised a single brow, a wary grimace forming on her face as she clicked on the archived newspaper article and began to read. That article led to another, which led to another. Before long, she had put together most of the official story on how House had come to be accused of drug possession with intent to distribute, and how his boss's testimony had cleared his name, if not his reputation.

She decided to ask Dr. Wilson about it later; if House was lying to her about it not being his fault…well, the last thing she needed this early in her career was to become embroiled in some kind of shady business. Her brow creased in a pensive frown as she remembered House's reaction to her question.

_He didn't really seem…_guilty, _so much as…as angry at being_ perceived _to be guilty. That…and scared out of his mind…_

Another name began to stand out in the articles she scanned on the subject of Dr. House's trial.

_Detective Michael Tritter… Seems like the guy took a personal interest in this particular case… and House got off. You don't suppose that maybe Tritter's the cop who attacked him?_

As her search progressed, Jenna became more and more intrigued by what she found. Finally, when her eyes burned with exhaustion, and her icy fingers ached too badly to continue moving over the keyboard, Jenna closed the laptop and burrowed under the two thick comforters that covered her bed.

Her final thought before falling asleep was a determination to find Dr. Wilson as soon as possible, and make sure that this time, he left her with more answers than questions.

Understandably, House couldn't fall asleep after the phone call from Tritter. Wilson stayed with him for a while, trying to calm him down, but with little success. He hated to think that he might have to call Cuddy, but he was on the verge of asking her to come over when inspiration struck.

Wilson went and got the gun.

"Look," he said as he settled into the chair facing the door of House's bedroom. "I'll just spend the night here, with the gun, and make sure nobody can hurt us. Okay?"

House hesitated, his eyes suggesting that the idea held some promise, although he still did not seem completely reassured. "You'll fall asleep," he said. He let out a soft, self-derisive snort, rolling his eyes as he amended, "You _should_ fall asleep. You shouldn't have to stay awake all night to defend me from…" His voice trailed off as he shook his head. "I could do it. I'm not going to sleep, anyway. You could let me hold the gun… I guarantee I'd feel a lot safer."

Wilson shook his head, not surprised by the suggestion, and not about to agree to it. "No, House. You're not getting your hands on this gun until you're a lot more stable than you are right now."

"Thanks."

"Seriously, House. What if you have a flashback? What if you mistake me for Tritter and I end up dead before morning?" Wilson shook his head. "No…I'll just stay up. I've already slept a few hours. I'll stay up. Then, when you wake up in the morning, it'll be safe for me to go to sleep. Okay?"

House hesitated, but then nodded reluctantly. "Okay. Can't guarantee I'll sleep, though."

Wilson decided that would have to do.

He settled into the comfortable chair near the window, his eyes focused on the bedroom door. An awkward silence filled the room, each aware that the other was awake, but neither knowing what to say. Every time Wilson wondered if House might finally have drifted off, the older man would anxiously look up to see if Wilson had fallen asleep.

"House," Wilson said in a hushed, patient voice, "relax. It's all right. You can go to sleep."

The last time Wilson found himself wondering if House had fallen asleep – House did not move. Wilson watched him for a moment, looking for any telltale sign that he was still awake, but saw none. Listening for his friend's breath, he noticed with relief that it was finally slow and rhythmic.

At last, House was asleep.

After that, it became more difficult for Wilson to stay awake.

And after _that_…it became impossible.

Around eight o'clock that morning, Wilson's cell phone rang, waking him from sleep – and he realized that there was no more disturbing sight to wake up to than the sight of a loaded pistol resting in your lap, aimed directly toward your most vital region. Still half-asleep, he let out a yelp of alarm, his arm jerking to remove the offending weapon from anywhere near his privates.

Unfortunately, when his arm jerked, so did his hand, pulling the trigger.

The bullet fired harmlessly into the floor, but the shot echoed loudly in the room. Now fully awake, Wilson swore quietly, shaken when he realized how close he had come to permanently maiming himself. He tried to callm his frayed nerves, ignoring his cell phone as he focused his attention toward House.

_Good job, Wilson. Now he's going to freak out, and you're not going to be able to calm him down, and…_

The thought trailed off when he realized that House had not stirred. At all. Wilson frowned, getting up and walking to House's side, relieved when he saw the steady rise and fall of his chest, confirming that he was merely sleeping – and apparently, quite soundly. _Very_ soundly.

_Good. He needs it, badly…_

He put the gun away before checking his phone, which had long since stopped ringing. When he saw that the missed call was from Jenna, he quietly closed the door to House's bedroom to avoid disturbing him. Then he eagerly dialed Jenna's number as he moved into his own room to take the call.

_Who'm I kidding? If the_ gunshot _didn't wake him, a phone call's not going to…_

"Hello?"

"Jenna? This is James Wilson. I'm sorry. I just missed your call."

"Oh, that's okay. I've got a few things I'd like to discuss with you. Could I meet with you?"

"Sure, sure," Wilson agreed. "No problem. Have you found anything yet?"

"Maybe. I'm really not sure. That's…why I need to talk to you." Jenna's voice was casual but guarded. "Should I come to your hotel?"

"We're not at the hotel anymore," Wilson informed her. Then, remembering what House had said the night before, about Tritter watching him, knowing about their move, he continued cautiously. "Let's meet somewhere else. Somewhere public. The coffee house on the corner of Main and 14th?"

"Sounds good to me," Jenna agreed.

"Good. Give me…an hour. I'll meet you there in an hour."

Wilson hung up the phone and dialed Cuddy at the hospital.

_She can make sure that House is safe…and _she _won't have to worry about shooting off her balls in her sleep…_

_The car stopped in a dark, deserted place House did not recognize. He could hear the pounding sound of the ocean, could smell the salt in the air. When he realized that they were parked just a few short yards from the edge of a towering bluff overlooking the ocean, his mouth went dry._

_Tritter got out of the passenger side of the car, dragging House behind him. The driver moved around the car to stand near Tritter, who jerked House forward by the belt around his neck, then yanked him up and slammed him painfully back against the car._

_House bit back a cry of agony, his eyes closing, his head falling back as Tritter edged closer, leaving virtually no space between them. When he felt cold steel next to his eye and heard the echoing click of Tritter's revolver, his eyes shot open again, and his heart leapt into his throat._

_Tritter smiled at him, giving him a mocking wink. "On your knees, House."_

_Shaking, his hands still bound behind his back, House struggled to obey, his eyes drifting between Tritter and the gun at his head, which stayed in place as he painfully, awkwardly obeyed the cruel command. Once House was kneeling, Tritter pressed the gun harder, maneuvering House's head to the side so that his cheek was pressed against the cold metal of the car._

_Tritter crouched in front of House, smiling calmly at the other man's obvious terror. "Ordinarily, this would be an easy question," he mused, "though for a man in your position, maybe not so much." He paused before asking softly, "Do you want to die, House?"_

_House hesitated a moment, although he already knew the answer. In spite of all he had been through that night, in spite of the agony to which his entire world had narrowed, his survival instincts were still functioning. He shook his head, his lips trembling as he whispered his response._

"_No…please, no…"_

_Tritter's smile widened, and he pressed harder, causing House to grimace with pain. "I don't know, House," he replied with false thoughtfulness. "How can I trust that you're gonna keep your mouth shut? How can I be sure that you won't run to your good buddy Wilson the minute I take you back? That you won't tell him all about tonight?"_

_House's jaw clenched with repressed emotion, his eyes welling with bitter tears, as he choked out the words, "How could you…how could you think that I'd _want _to… to _tell anyone_…?"_

_Tritter laughed, and his companion laughed with him. "Good point," Tritter conceded. "Still… I'm not sure I can trust you, House. I need to know that _you _know better than to try anything really stupid…like payback of any kind, legal or otherwise. How can I be sure of that?"_

"_I… I swear I won't," House whispered, his eyes closed again in terror. "Please… don't. I swear I'll just… forget about it…" His shoulders shook with bitter laughter, mingled with sobs, because he knew that he would _never _'forget about it'._

"_No. Still not convinced," Tritter decided, shaking his head with a critical frown. "Hey, Johnny… give me your gun." He smirked when House looked up at him, eyes bewildered and full of dread. Tritter shrugged as he met his gaze. "Cops' guns and ammo are _so _easily traceable. My friend Johnny, here… he's not a cop."_

_Johnny handed over the gun with a malicious grin, and Tritter put his own away, now aiming the second weapon at House's temple. House flinched hard, his head slamming painfully into the side of the car, and his captors laughed cruelly. _

"_Yeah, Johnny and me…we go way back," Tritter continued, though by this time, House could not make sense of his words, or why he was saying them. "He's the only guy not on the force that I'd trust with this kind of thing. He's worked with me on the less than above-board jobs for nearly ten years now. He's got a criminal record a mile long, but you talk about trust… I trust Johnny, and Johnny trusts me."_

_As he spoke the last few words, Tritter abruptly shifted the gun to take aim at Johnny and pulled the trigger before the other man had time to register what had happened. House stared, stunned, as the unfortunate rapist's blood spattered his face. Johnny's body collapsed backward to the ground, the life instantly extinguished from it._

_Tritter slowly turned to aim again at House, who cringed, his entire body shaking violently, tears of shock and terror streaking his face. Tritter edged in closer, his lips less than an inch from House's ear when he finally spoke in a low, menacing whisper._

"_You think I'd kill _him…_my _friend…_but I wouldn't kill _you_? A worthless piece of scum drug addict who's no good to anyone? You think your life and the lives of your pathetic, lying friends mean _anything _to me, House?"_

_House shook his head almost frantically, biting his lip until it bled._

"_Now you listen to me, House… and you listen good," Tritter continued, his voice still a low, intense whisper, his breath hot in House's ear. "If you _ever _open your mouth to _anyone – _I will come after you, and your friend Wilson, and your little slut boss who seems to care _so much – _and I'll take all three of you out to the place we just left." Tritter paused, and his next words sent a dark chill through House._

"_I'll do to them exactly what I've just done to you, House… and I'll make you watch. I'll make sure they know exactly why it's happening to them. I'll make sure they know who's to blame for the fact that they're being violated and degraded. They'll die in agony, House. And so will you. You'll die _last…_ but you'll die. If you open your stupid, freaking mouth even _once. _Do I make myself perfectly clear?"_

_House nodded, no longer able to hold back sobs. "Please," he begged, desperate and broken. "I won't say anything, I swear… please… please, don't hurt them…"_

_Tritter smiled coldly, tracing the barrel of the gun down from House's temple and across his lips in a gesture of soft, deceptive menace. "Well, House," he reminded him with false gentleness, "that's entirely up to _you_."_


	28. Chapter 28

Wilson spotted Jenna from across the parking lot, seated at an outdoor table with a plastic glass of lemonade and a turkey sandwich in front of her

Wilson spotted Jenna from across the parking lot, seated at an outdoor table with a plastic glass of lemonade and a turkey sandwich in front of her. When she saw him coming, her shoulders straightened and she gave him a smile and a wave, rising to her feet as he reached her.

He immediately noticed how attractive she looked, her dark hair pulled back in a tight knot at the base of her neck, under a golf-style cap with a few loose strands of hair to frame her face. She wore a grey turtleneck sweater with dark jeans. All in all her look was casual, but well put together.

He was stunned when she took his hand, leaning in to give him a brief kiss on the cheek before leading him by the hand to the chair across from hers and taking her own seat again. He raised an eyebrow in her direction, opening his mouth to protest.

"You were worried about being followed, right?" she reminded him quietly, a warm smile on her lips. "Just in case – isn't it better if it looks like you're just on a lunch date?"

Understanding dawned on Wilson, and he returned her smile, nodding slowly. "Yeah. Makes sense."

He left his hand in hers, telling himself it was just to keep up the ruse that they were on a date. However, he found that she was halfway through her next sentence before he even realized she was talking again.

"… looked up Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and realized he was _so_ lying to me. Which, you know... I know he wants to preserve his privacy and all, but… if you guys want me to be able to actually help you, you're gonna have to be straight with me, you know? How does he expect me to find out anything about the cops who attacked him, when he knows who they are and he won't even give me that much?"

Wilson grimaced, troubled by her words – both the fact that she had so easily figured out what House had chosen to withhold from her, and the fact that he knew she was right. It was ridiculous to hire a private investigator to find out information you didn't know, but then refuse to give them the information you _did_ know to work with. With a weary sigh, he did his best to explain.

"Look… these guys… the guys who hurt him… they're pretty scary guys, Jenna. And House is just… really, _really_ afraid of them. He doesn't want to take a chance of their trying to get back at him for talking, so… I don't know, maybe it was stupid to even come to you about it. I understand your problem – I totally understand. It's just… I don't feel like I can tell you anything more than he already has, you know? I wouldn't feel right about it." He sighed again as he rose to his feet, reaching for his wallet. "This was probably a bad idea. I should just pay you for your time and let you take on a case you might actually be able to solve."

Jenna pulled him abruptly back down into his seat by the hand she still held, and Wilson looked up at her, startled by the sudden gesture.

"I can solve _this_ case," she said, her eyes piercing, intent, as she held his gaze. "If you'll give me a chance to."

"It's probably safer if we just try to handle this ourselves," Wilson insisted, gently extracting his hand from hers and rising to his feet again. "Honestly, Jenna, you don't want to know who these cops are. They'll just come after you, too, and…"

"Michael Tritter."

Wilson froze. He was quiet for a long moment, staring at Jenna's quietly expectant face, as he slowly sat down again, pale and apprehensive. "Where did you hear that name?"

"It wasn't hard to find. And why didn't you tell me that House was up against drug charges less than a month ago?" Jenna asked, her voice calm but unyielding. "I asked specifically about any shady dealings. I would think it _might_ have come up."

"Those charges were false," Wilson told her, a hard note creeping into his voice. "House never intended to sell any drugs of any kind. The whole thing was ridiculous."

"Apparently Michael Tritter didn't think so."

"Stop saying that name!" Wilson snapped, glancing anxiously around them to see if anyone appeared to be overhearing them, before looking back at Jenna in exasperation.

"So…I'm guessing I've hit a nerve, here…"

"You need to stop right now, before you hit any more," Wilson declared, standing up again. "Jenna, seriously. You need to let this go. Forget you ever met us. Let's just consider our agreement finished at this point…" Trembling hands took several folded bills out of his wallet, and Wilson tossed them down on top of the bill on the table. "Thank you for your time thus far. We won't be needing your services any longer…"

"Just tell me one thing," Jenna requested, not even looking at the money on the table, waiting until Wilson met her eyes again to go on. "It wasn't just a beating – was it?"

Wilson stared at her for a long moment, something dark and angry creeping into his gaze, and Jenna thought perhaps she had gone a step too far. When he turned and walked away without another word, she decided that she definitely had. She pocketed the money he had given her, using a portion of it to pay her lunch bill, before heading for her car, her pace purposeful and determined.

She may have been fired – but she was far from off the case.

A thundering sound tore House from sleep with a sharp cry of distress, and he sat up, shaking, breath rapid and shallow as he stared around the unfamiliar room through wide, confused eyes. Slowly, the shadowy world of his nightmares faded away, and reality returned.

_The new apartment… new room… broad daylight… nothing to be afraid of…_

Another loud, clattering sound like the first that had awakened him drew House's attention, and he cautiously got to his feet, following the sound toward the kitchen. After all, the sound was not exactly a frightening one. It sounded like Wilson, making himself busy in the kitchen.

Or rather, like Wilson might have sounded, had he been a female dean of medicine so clueless in the culinary arts that she had existed on take-out for the past ten years.

When he walked into the kitchen, Cuddy was gathering up a stack of pots and pans she had accidentally dropped and placing them back in the cabinet from which they had fallen. She looked up when she saw him in the doorway, giving him a sheepish smile.

"I'm still… figuring out where everything goes," she explained with an awkward little shrug.

House nodded at the remaining few cooking vessels lying on the floor. "They don't go there."

"You wanna make your own breakfast, mister?"

House granted her a slight smile, shaking his head. "I'll pass. You're doing a great job. I eat off the floor at home all the time."

She smiled at his small joke, but both their smiles faded swiftly as House remembered that this _was_ home, for the moment – possibly for good. He leaned his cane against the kitchen table as he sat down, resting his head in his hands as he drew in a weary breath.

"Where's Wilson?"

"Went to meet with the PI," she replied.

She was looking away, so she missed his sharp upward glance, the alarm in his piercing blue eyes before he lowered his head again with a shaky sigh. Suddenly he felt very sick, a heavy knot settling in the pit of his stomach.

"Coffee?" Cuddy offered, setting a steaming mug down on the table in front of him.

House stared at it blankly for a moment. "Thanks." When she stood there, looking down at him with obvious concern, he gave her a weak, rueful grimace. "Rough night," was his only explanation.

"I heard." Cuddy's voice was mild, but House caught the slight edge to her voice, and knew that Wilson must have told her about the phone call before he left. She turned away from the stove, and the half dozen eggs she had just cracked into a sizzling pan, long enough to meet House's eyes. "We're going to get him, House. We're not going to let him get away with doing this to you."

House was quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," he answered at last, his voice soft and certain. "We are."

Cuddy frowned, troubled by his response. "No, we're not," she argued. "We've got to catch him, House. He's obviously not going to stop on his own, and you can't just live the rest of your life like this…"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" House snapped, his voice trembling with frustration as he glared up at her. "This is the only way I _can_ live the rest of my life. _I've _already adjusted to the idea, so maybe you should, too."

Cuddy turned her attention back to the eggs, stirring in some shredded cheese, her mouth forming a firm, determined line. "Not going to happen," she stated firmly. "You can give up if you want to, House, but I refuse to let him get away with this. You're not going to be safe until he's off the street…"

"I'm not going to be safe, period!" House cut her off, exasperated. "Don't you get it? We can't stop him! He's the one with the power, here! Nobody's going to believe my story, no matter what we manage to dig up about him…"

"How do you know that?" Cuddy countered, barely reigning in her frustration. "You don't know what evidence is out there! What if he's done this to someone else?"

"Then they probably won't talk, either," House muttered, looking away as she carried the pan of scrambled eggs to the table and put some onto his plate, and some onto her own. He stared down at the food, mentally aware that it looked delicious.

He wasn't the slightest bit hungry.

Cuddy sat down across from him, reaching across the table to rest her hand on his. "House…"

He jerked away from her hand, feeling defensive and irritated and unwilling to submit to her affection. "You just don't get it," he muttered. "You never will. It's not as easy as you want to think it is. The good guys don't always win, Cuddy. Especially when the bad guy's got almost all the good guys on his side. There's nothing we can do to stop him, and if we try…" His voice trailed off for a moment, and when he finished the thought, his voice was quiet, distant. "…bad things will happen."

"House," Cuddy persisted gently, "what sort of bad things are you so sure will happen? How will he even know that we're investigating?"

"He'll just know, okay?" House snapped, rising to his feet and going to the counter, bracing his hands on it and keeping his back turned to her. "He's got… contacts, and… and sources of information. He's… he's constantly watching, and he'll _know_…"

"Is that really any worse than what you're going through right now?" Cuddy pointed out, a pleading note to her voice, and House cringed when he heard her rise, cautiously closing the distance between them. "Don't you think it might be better to take the chance, and try to actually stop this harassment? Don't you think it might be worth the risk?"

"No, it's _not_ worth the risk!" House whirled around to face her, eyes blazing with outrage. "And if you had any idea of what's happened to me – what he's capable of – you wouldn't ever suggest that it's _worth_ it!"

Cuddy flinched. "House, that's… not what I meant…"

But House was on a roll now, enraged by her careless words, and she found herself backing away as he advanced on her, cutting off her protest. "You think it'd be worth it if he came here in the middle of the night and took us? Came in and dragged us out to somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, and raped and tortured and killed us all? You think that'd be _worth_ it?"

Cuddy's eyes were wide, her face pale, as she leaned against the edge of the table, House's face mere inches from hers. "Is that… is that what he said he'd do?" she whispered.

House closed his eyes against the pain of his memories, against the sympathy he saw in her eyes, his head bowed as he struggled to maintain what minimal control he had left over his emotions. His voice was a soft rasp, quiet and defeated, heavy with shame, when he finally answered.

"Yes. That's what he said he'd do… if I told _anyone_."

Cuddy was quiet, studying his face for a long moment before reaching out to tentatively take his hand – and this time, he did not pull away. "House," she said softly, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes to continue in a gentle whisper, "you already _did_ tell someone. You told me, and you told Wilson. So… if he's really capable of carrying out these threats, then… then we're already dead. Aren't we?"

The panic in House's eyes nearly broke her heart, but Cuddy kept her expression calm, waiting patiently for his response. His breath quickened, his hand in hers trembling as he nodded shakily.

"Yeah," he whispered. "We are."

Cuddy waited a moment, phrasing her words carefully before she finally spoke. "So… if he _is_ as… as all-powerful as you seem to think he is… then… it's already too late. But… if he's _not_… if there's a chance that we can still stop him and save our own lives… don't you think we should take it?"

House didn't answer, but he raised thoughtful, apprehensive eyes to hers, and she knew that at least he was listening, taking in what she was saying.

"Either… we can't beat him at all, he knows our every move as soon as we've made it, and there's no hope at all – and it doesn't matter _what_ we do at this point. Or… maybe… he's _not_ all that infallible, and we have a chance to outsmart him… and we should _try_ to get him put away, before he can do any more damage. Either way…" She paused, gently squeezing his hand, reaching out her free hand to touch his arm and draw him slightly closer to her. "…it seems like doing _something_… is at least as good an option as doing nothing. Doesn't it?"


	29. Chapter 29

Cuddy knew that she had made her point, but she was afraid that in so doing, she might have crossed the line between things that House was ready to deal with, and things he was not

Cuddy knew that she had made her point, but she was afraid that in so doing, she might have crossed the line between things that House was ready to deal with and things he was not. His face went very pale, and he stared at her for a long, tense moment, before finally drawing in a shaky breath.

"Excuse me," was all he said. Much to her surprise, he turned and made his way out of the kitchen and back toward his bedroom, stopping long enough to pick up his coffee cup and take it with him on the way.

For a moment, she considered going after him, but then decided to leave him his space. She knew she couldn't begin to imagine what he was going through, and it was perfectly understandable if he didn't want to go through all of it in front of her. She had made a logical argument – and upon reflection decided that logic was definitely her best option with House. All she could do now was leave him to think about it and come to his own decision.

When Wilson walked in the door half an hour later, Cuddy looked up at him hopefully from her seat on the couch. Her face fell when she saw the tired, discouraged expression on his face.

"What happened?" she asked immediately, scooting over from the middle cushion to give Wilson room to sit beside her, as she picked up the remote and pushed the mute button.

Wilson sighed wearily, giving her an ironic smile as he sat down on the couch. "I…fired her."

"What? Why?" Cuddy was bewildered. "What did she do?"

Wilson hesitated a moment, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. He let out another heavy sigh, shaking his head as he answered helplessly, "Her _job_."

Cuddy was quiet, waiting for further clarification.

"She found out too much. She found out about Tritter." Wilson let out a shaky, nearly silent laugh before adding, "Which is what she was _supposed_ to do. We wanted her to find out information on him, see if we could get any hard evidence. But… when she said his name, out loud, in public – I panicked."

Cuddy was thoughtful. "Why?" she asked softly.

Wilson considered a moment before answering, "Because _House_ would have panicked. Because I know he doesn't want her to know anything about this. Because he keeps saying that if Tritter finds out anything about this, we're all dead, and… and maybe I'm starting to believe him." He paused, looking up to meet her eyes, his own sad and solemn. "And it doesn't matter, anyway. We can't go against his wishes on this, even if I _didn't_ believe him about how dangerous Tritter is."

"I think he's right about that," Cuddy said softly, keeping her voice low. House had not emerged from his bedroom, and she thought it would be better if he didn't overhear this conversation. "He told me… something Tritter told him. That night."

Wilson's troubled, questioning gaze rose from the sofa to meet hers.

"He told House that… if he told anyone… he'd come after us all…"

Wilson frowned. "He already told us that…"

"…and he'd do to all of us the same thing he already did to House."

Those words silenced Wilson's protests. His face went pale, his eyes wide with shock and horror. "He… he _said_ he would…?"

Cuddy nodded, not making him finish the dreadful thought. It was hard enough to get her next sickening words out. "He… told House he'd make him watch."

Wilson's eyes darkened with anger, his jaw clenching as he looked away, resting his head in his hands again for a moment before looking up. "I'll kill him," he muttered. "I swear I'll kill that man…"

"Wilson… we have to stay in control, here. This is a very dangerous situation, but we can't lose our heads. We have to _do_ something. If House is right, and Tritter is really capable of doing what he said he would – then, eventually, he _will_. Unless we stop him. At some point, he's going to get suspicious, realize House has told us – and he'll come after us." Cuddy paused, holding Wilson's gaze as she concluded firmly, "We have to stop him before that happens."

"But if House is right, and we keep investigating, and Tritter realizes we're investigating…"

Wilson's voice broke off, and both of them turned their eyes toward House's bedroom door as it abruptly swung open. House emerged, leaning heavily on his cane, his head bowed, empty coffee cup hanging from his other hand. He was silent for a long moment, not looking at either of them, and Cuddy sensed from his demeanor that despite her efforts, he had overheard at least part of their conversation.

At last he spoke, his words quiet and measured, but utterly decisive. "She's right. If I wanted to do nothing… I should have kept my mouth shut from the start. It's too late for that now." He looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn before continuing, "But if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. We need a plan."

"Okay," Wilson replied, his voice slow and cautious. "Any… particular plan in mind?"

"Not yet. But soon," House replied, nodding toward Wilson. "Call your little PI friend back. Tell her she's un-fired." He looked at Cuddy. "Go home. I think it's safe to say that if we're being watched, he's watching our place, not yours. Have the PI go to Cuddy's, but park down the street. Once she's been there a little while, we'll head over there. With any luck, anybody watching us will never have to know she was there at all."

"House," Wilson tried again, hopeful and concerned at the same time, "what are you thinking?"

House gave him a small, self-deprecating smile as he shrugged. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

A couple of hours later, Wilson and House walked into Cuddy's living room to find a very awkward Cuddy doing her best to entertain a very curious Jenna, without telling her anything more about the situation than she already knew.

After all, Cuddy had no idea how much House wanted her to know.

He made the answer to that question clear immediately upon walking through the door. He approached Jenna directly, standing in front of her and extending his hand in greeting. He wore a falsely bright smile.

"Dr. Gregory House. Nice to meet you."

Jenna's lips twisted slightly as she met his eyes, taking his hand and shaking it. "I _knew _you were a doctor."

House rolled his eyes as he extracted his hand from hers and sat down next to Cuddy on the sofa, across from Jenna. "Yeah, yeah. Good for you. There's a lot of stuff you know that frankly, I'd rather you didn't. But, it's too late for that. Right now, you know just enough to put yourself and all of us in danger – which leaves me no choice but to tell you the rest. So, let's start fresh."

Jenna nodded, leaning forward a little in her chair, clearly eager at the prospect of having her curiosity sated. "Sounds good to me."

A moment's awkward silence descended over the room, as Cuddy and Wilson waited for House, who visibly struggled to summon the courage to tell his story. Finally, he looked up, his intent gaze betraying more vulnerability than he might have liked, but his jaw was set with determination to go through with this, no matter how difficult it might be.

"A week ago," he began at last, his voice carefully even and calm. "I was attacked… by a police detective named Michael Tritter, and… and three other men. There was… a fifth man, too, who… I think all he did was… was move my bike. He was there when they… when they… took me, but… but I didn't see him after that." House hesitated, struggling over the words as he went on, "Tritter, he… he's threatened to… to kill me and anyone who knows about it, if I say anything about… what happened."

Jenna deliberately ignored his vague choice of words, keeping her tone light as she replied, "Oh. Well, that might have been nice to know _before_ I took the case." Her smile reassured them that she was not really upset, was rather intrigued. "I'm in it now." She paused. "So… I'm guessing my job has changed. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find out anything you can – but discreetly. Don't let him know you're investigating. That hasn't changed. But… see if you can find any evidence that he's… done this to someone else before. Or… see if you can uncover any other illegal activities. Anything solid that we can take to the authorities." He hesitated, amending vaguely, "Some… _other_ authorities."

Jenna nodded, silently accepting his terms. Really, her job hadn't changed that much, except to become much easier – and much more dangerous. "Am I still supposed to check in with… with Dr. Wilson?"

Despite his obvious tension, House managed to draw a faint smile to his lips, glancing between Jenna and Wilson, both of whom seemed suddenly self-conscious. "Sure," he agreed casually. "If that's what… the two of _you_ want."

"It's not," Jenna hurried to explain. "I mean… it's not _not _what I want. It's just… either way… is… good…" she finished weakly, eyes averted, blushing furiously.

"Does that work for you? _Dr_. Wilson?" House echoed Jenna's formal term of addres, deliberately pushing the matter, glad for the distraction from his own considerably heavier concerns.

"That's… fine," Wilson agreed awkwardly, glaring at House across the coffee table. "No reason to… to change things now."

"No, of course not." House grinned. "Not just when things are starting to get so… interesting."

House sat back, immensely satisfied with the level of discomfort he had created for his friend and the pretty young PI. When Cuddy spoke up, however, drawing all of their attention back to the matter at hand, his smile faded away, and his posture once again became tense and anxious.

Her voice was gentle and hesitant. "This might not be something we want to think about, but… we need to have some kind of protective measures in place, in case Tritter _does_ come after us. I mean… there's always the chance that he might catch on. And even if he doesn't, he might decide to try something, anyway. We have to be ready for that possibility."

As she spoke, Cuddy's hand edged subtly across the couch cushion, her fingers just barely brushing against House's. "I just think we need to do everything we can to… to be sure that you're safe," she confessed softly, relieved that he did not pull his hand away, though his head was bowed and his jaw clenched with his efforts to suppress the fear invoked by her words.

Cuddy turned her attention toward Jenna, hoping both to distract her, and to divert any attention from House's reaction. "You're the professional. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Well," Jenna replied thoughtfully, "you already have the gun. That's helpful, as long as you know how to use it." She paused. "Do you all? Know how to use it?"

An awkward silence followed, broken by Wilson's tentative, "I…took a class…"

"Good." Jenna nodded toward the sofa. "There's not time for the two of you to take one, too, though that would be ideal. I know how to use a gun; I can teach you. Then there's security. You need an alarm system in your new apartment, and it wouldn't hurt you to have one too, Dr. Cuddy. And cameras. Surveillance cameras are a good idea for more reasons than one. They'll discourage intruders, but if this Tritter guy _does_ try something, you'll have definite evidence against him."

"Great," House muttered, not looking up, his voice low to disguise the slight tremor it held. "So the murder trial will be a sure bet, then."

"No," Jenna replied, shaking her head. "We won't let it get that far. I'm assuming you all have cell phones? Pagers?"

When they responded in the affirmative, Jenna continued. "You need to have each other on speed dial, if you don't already. And _you_ should have a second phone," she told House. "With them, and me, on speed dial, and its own ring tone on all our phones. Your alarm system should have a panic button, so you can get help on the way in a matter of seconds, but just in case something goes wrong with that, the cell phone is a backup. That way if it's in your pocket, and something happens, you can get help right away, probably without anyone noticing what you're doing."

"Yeah," House scoffed quietly, subdued by the unsettling turn in the conversation. "And what are you going to do when you get my call? Call the cops?"

"Well… yeah." Jenna shrugged. "If the alarm goes off, it'll go directly to the security company, and they'll contact the police. And if you call one of us, we'll contact them for you. If you have security cameras to record everything, you'll have evidence. And you can't tell me that every cop on the Princeton force is crooked. If there's proof, you'll have Tritter cornered."

"So I guess I should start hoping for him to come after me, then, shouldn't I?" House muttered. "Guess that's best for everyone."

"House," Cuddy spoke up softly, waiting until he met her eyes to go on. "This actually sounds like a decent plan. You're talking about four cops out of the entire police force. The chances of those particular cops responding to the call are slim to none – especially if some or all of them are with you in the first place."

"I know," House admitted, glancing up at Cuddy, then Wilson, with a trace of cautious hope in his eyes. "It… actually _does_ sound like it… might work."

"Good, then. It's a plan," Jenna replied. "We'll get the security systems in the works right away. In the mean time, you shouldn't ever be alone, Dr. House. It stands to reason that if they _do_ decide to come after someone, it'd be you before anyone else…"

House's hand twitched nervously under Cuddy's, and Cuddy gave it a gentle squeeze. She was annoyed with Jenna for her lack of tact, for pointing out the obvious in a way that was making House even more nervous. Jenna was on a roll, however, and didn't notice House's and Cuddy's reactions.

"… so as long as you're with someone at all times, you should be okay until we can get the cameras and security system in. We also need to set up a system to stay in contact when we're separated. Really, none of us should be alone for long from this point on. And when one of us is, they need to check in by phone with someone else at least every hour, so we know if something… happens." Jenna paused for breath, her expression growing serious as she looked at House.

"What else can you tell me about the men who attacked you? You mentioned Tritter, so I'm assuming you didn't recognize the others?"

House swallowed hard, shaking his head – not trusting himself to speak.

"Did you get a good look at them?" Jenna asked, her voice softening. "Their faces? Hair? Clothes? Anything that might help to identify them?"

House closed his eyes, and Cuddy noticed his breath quickening as he struggled for control. Jenna's questions, while necessary, were forcing him to think about memories he would rather bury forever. He shook his head again, his voice hushed and heavy as he replied.

"No, I… I didn't see their faces. Or… I don't _remember _their faces. I'm… not sure…"

Cuddy's heart ached for him as he wrestled with his emotions, fighting for enough control to go on. "Take your time," she murmured in gentle encouragement.

House grimaced, secretly grateful for her support, but nevertheless embarrassed by his need for it. "I just… can't remember anything… specific… about them, how they looked, whatever. He… called one of them… Johnny. And I think he's… the only one who wasn't a cop."

Jenna was quiet for a long moment. It was impossible to miss House's discomfort, and she felt bad for doing anything to increase it, but if she was going to help him, there were things that she had to know.

The problem was, she wasn't sure what most of those things were.

"Is there… anything else you need to tell me? Anything else that might help?" she asked at last, her voice quiet and patient.

House was silent for a long time, not looking at her, but his silence was weighted. Clearly, there was something he wanted to say. Finally, hesitant and halting, he replied.

"I said there were…five men in all… and there were… but… you're looking for only four. One of them… one of them is dead." He was quiet for a moment, before raising his eyes to meet Jenna's. "Tritter killed him."


	30. Chapter 30

Following House's stunning announcement, no one spoke for a few moments, everyone taking in the new and disturbing information that not only had House been brutally attacked, but he had apparently witnessed a murder as well

Following House's startling announcement, no one spoke for a few moments, everyone taking in the new and disturbing information that not only had House been brutally attacked, but he had apparently witnessed a murder as well.

At last Jenna broke the silence, unable to keep a note of excitement from her voice. "You saw him kill this guy? Maybe there's evidence! How did it happen?"

From his chair beside her, Wilson silently reached out a hand to rest on her arm in a stilling gesture, and she looked up at him, momentarily confused. His concerned gaze was focused on House, who was clearly not as excited as Jenna at the prospect of recounting what he had seen.

House swallowed hard, drawing in a deep breath, his eyes focused on his lap. "They… they drove out to this… remote area… out by the ocean, and… and he made me get out of the car, and… and get… on my knees." House's voice was barely audible. "He… he held his gun to my head, and… and I thought… I was sure he was going to…"

He stopped, shaking his head, biting his lower lip. "But then he… he put his gun away, and he… he asked the other guy… Johnny… for his gun, and… and he shot him. In the head. Right… right in front of me." He stopped, closing his eyes, shaking his head slightly, and Cuddy felt her own eyes fill with tears, recognizing his struggle against the memories that loomed, threatening to swallow him up in their horror.

Before her misgivings could stop her, Cuddy gave in to her maternal instincts. Her right hand still clasped in his, Cuddy put her left arm around House's shoulder. His hands were shaking, and his breath quickened. She felt him lean, apparently unconsciously, into her embrace, and was reassured that she had done the right thing.

"It's over, House," she reminded him in a low, private voice. "You're not there anymore. It's over, and you're safe. Just… take your time… You don't even have to talk about this right now if you don't want to…"

Jenna grimaced at those words. She didn't want to let it go, more concerned with finding the answer than with House's feelings at the moment. Still, her tone held a note of apology as she added, "But… if you _do_ want to… it would be really helpful…"

House couldn't help an ironic half-smile at her eagerness, in such sharp contrast with his own struggle. "It's fine," he insisted quietly. "It's… it's all right. I'll tell you. I'd… rather get it done now than have to… have to deal with it later." He paused a moment before going on, his voice a little stronger than before. "Before… before he shot him, he… he said that the guy had… worked with him, for the past ten years, on… on other… other…"

"Situations like yours?" Cuddy gently suggested when it seemed that he couldn't find the words, choosing her own words carefully.

House nodded. "Yeah. So… I guess that answers the question, about… whether or not he's done this before." He was quiet for a moment, gathering his courage to go on, before he added, "He said… if he'd kill someone he'd… considered a friend, then… then he wouldn't hesitate to… to kill me, if I… if I talked. To anyone. He said… if I told, he'd… he'd…"

House's shoulders were shaking, and he lowered his head as he struggled for control.

"You don't… have to tell me that part," Jenna offered softly, compassion in her eyes. "That's not necessary. All I need to know about is… well… is there any chance that he left any evidence behind? I mean… did you see what he did with the body? With the gun? Was there any… any blood left behind? Anything at all that you can remember might help."

House nodded. "We were… near the ocean. On a bluff, overlooking the water. He… he wiped the gun of his own prints, and…put it in Johnny's hand. Then he… threw both off the side into the water. I guess he was… trying to make it look like a suicide…"

Jenna frowned, shaking her head. "That doesn't make sense. He's a cop. Surely he'd know that forensics would show the angle at which the gun was fired. He'd have to be pretty good – and also physically pretty close to this Johnny guy – to get the exact angle and positioning of the gun right."

House looked up to meet her eyes. "Trust me," he told her with a bitter laugh. "He's good. He… he shot him point blank in the temple. Johnny was… was standing… pretty close to… to Tritter when he shot him, so… I think he got it right."

"And if he was just slightly off… anything he might have missed," Wilson added in a grim, thoughtful voice, "the salt water will erase most of the trace evidence left behind. Even if they can prove it wasn't suicide… there's nothing to connect the body with Tritter, whenever it washes up…"

"And it will," Jenna confirmed with a slow nod. "They always do. And there may be evidence. There's no such thing as the perfect crime… not anymore. There may be plenty to connect Tritter with this guy he killed. We just haven't found it yet." She returned her attention to House, her voice quiet and respectful as she asked, "Do you think you could find the place where it happened?"

House just looked at her blankly for a moment, visibly struggling to focus on what she had said, against the vicious onslaught of horrific memories and fears assailing his mind. Finally, understanding showed in his eyes. He considered for a moment, then shook his head slowly.

"No. I… I didn't recognize anything, and… and I… had other things on my mind, on the way there… I wasn't exactly watching for landmarks."

His voice lowered to a whisper as his eyes focused on his lap again, and he shifted slightly closer to Cuddy, without realizing it. Cuddy's fingers trailed gently up and down across his shoulder in a soothing motion, as she willingly drew him closer to her, accepting his unintentional advance.

"Do you think you could… could _find_ it?" Jenna pushed a bit, too eager at the prospect of evidence to let it go. "I mean… if we started from some point you _do_ remember, and just… started driving…?"

Cuddy felt a tremor shake through House at the suggestion, and she cleared her throat, drawing Jenna's attention. "I don't think that's a good idea, Jenna. Especially if he's being followed. Even if he _could_ remember how to get there, how is he going to get you there without it being absolutely obvious that there's an investigation? And he said he _doesn't _remember, so… I think it's best if we drop that topic for now."

There was no mistaking the authority in her tone. Jenna glanced at House, who just sat there in silent agreement with Cuddy's decision. She was reluctant to give up without being sure she had all the information she was going to get; and yet, a single glance at House's face told her that the conversation had become to much for him, at least for now. She nodded her acceptance.

"All right, then. That's fine. Maybe I can… find out who this Johnny is. Find some kind of connection, maybe some other crimes that he and Tritter have been involved in together." Sensing that the conversation was over, Jenna rose to her feet, concluding, "I'll get the supplies we need for the security system, cameras… I'll bring you receipts…"

House nodded without looking up at her, apparently unable to find his voice at the moment.

"I'll just… go out the back door, and cut across lawns to get to my car," Jenna said. "That way if anyone's watching, they won't know I was here." She glanced awkwardly around the apartment before asking, "Where's the… back door, again?"

"I'll show you." Wilson stood up, leading her out of the room.

Cuddy watched as Wilson led Jenna through the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind them, and leaving her alone with a shaken House. She focused her attention on him, her hand leaving his to touch his cheek, gently but firmly turning his face toward hers.

"House… hey…" she murmured, trying to get his attention. He was staring past her, a stricken expression in his eyes, and she suspected that he was on the verge of a severe flashback, or at the least a panic attack. "House… look at me… hey… it's all right…"

He finally raised his eyes to hers. "He… he said he'd… he said he'd kill us… He said he'd… he'd…"

"Shhh," she soothed him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his head down onto her shoulder. "I know… I know… But that's not going to happen. He's not going to touch you again, okay? He's never going to touch you…"

He clung to her so closely that she could feel the rapid pulse of his heartbeat against her chest, and she just held him, helping him to ride out the violent tremors that shook his body.

"It's all right," she whispered over and over, her voice quiet and calm, rocking slightly as she tried to soothe him. "It's all right… you're safe… it's okay…"

At some point, Wilson appeared in the kitchen doorway, and despite the situation Cuddy noted absently that he had taken an awfully long time to see Jenna out. He met Cuddy's eyes in silent communication before retreating into the kitchen again to give them their privacy.

Finally, House stopped shaking, and Cuddy felt his body tense in her arms with the inevitable embarrassment that followed these breakdowns. Slowly, awkwardly, he raised his head, a sheepish, humorless half-smile on his lips, his eyes averted as he drew back.

"Well… _that_ was pathetic," he observed flatly, starting to pull away from her arm, still around his shoulder. When she didn't let go, he resisted, letting out a frustrated little sound of protest.

"Just wait," she said softly. "No need to go anywhere just yet, is there?"

House tensed momentarily, but then relaxed with a sigh, leaning back against her arm, raising a weary hand to cover his eyes for a moment before sliding it down over his face.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," Cuddy assured him.

"This is ridiculous. It's got to… got to stop at some point, doesn't it?" His voice sounded utterly exhausted, and Cuddy's heart went out to him. "This can't just… keep happening, but… but I can't see how I'm going to… to get past this." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Ever."

Cuddy was quiet, unsure what to say that would be both comforting and honest. She had no idea how long it would take for the panic attacks and flashbacks and horrific nightmares to come to an end. She had enough medical knowledge to know that for some people, it never _ended_– but that information would not be particularly helpful to share.

Besides – she was fairly certain House already knew that.

She also knew that the way House was handling things was not likely to help his recovery along. House was a person whose mind was constantly at work, constantly questioning, analyzing, seeking – and in this particular situation, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. If he just stayed inside all the time, with nothing to do but go over his personal nightmare again and again in his head, Cuddy knew it would take him even longer to deal with it.

He needed to get out, to do something besides obsess over what had happened to him.

He needed to get back to the business of _living_.

"I think," she began cautiously. "I think… it might help if you went back to work."

House immediately, emphatically, shook his head. "No. I can't…"

"You can. You haven't officially given me your resignation yet," Cuddy pointed out. A sly smile touched her lips as she added, "And even if you had… I haven't accepted it. And… have no intention of accepting it."

House looked up at her sharply, his eyes slowly narrowing into a glare. "You can't force me to work at PPTH. You can accept my resignation – or you can fire me for not showing up to work. Either way…"

"House… _why_?" Cuddy asked, urgency in her voice, searching his eyes for some clue as to what he was thinking. "Why this fixation with quitting? You have to know it's not good for you to just sit around with nothing to do but think about what happened. You're a doctor, House, and you're the _best_ damn doctor I've ever known. Don't tell me you don't know how unhealthy this is…"

"I _do_ know," House snapped, pulling away from her at last in irritation and struggling to his feet. "Okay? I know!"

"Then why?" Cuddy repeated, rising as well. "Why would you deliberately do something that you know is only going to make things worse?"

"Because I don't have a choice!"

"What do you mean you don't have a choice? Of _course_ you have a choice!"

"No, I _don't_!" House snapped his voice rising in his frustration.

"Why not?" Cuddy demanded, moving closer to House, a challenge in her voice. "Tell me why you _have _to quit!"

"Because he _told_ me I have to!" House blurted out at last – and then froze, clearly not having meant to tell her so much.

They both stood there in silence for a long moment.

At last, Cuddy broke the silence, her voice hushed. "He… he _what_?"

House turned away from her, frustrated and embarrassed, not wanting to tell her any more – but it was too late. She already knew the truth.

"He… he said I _had_ to quit. He said… I… I don't have the right to…" His voice trailed off, and he lowered his head, shaking it slightly in despair. His voice dropped to a whisper. "… to… treat patients… because I'm n-nothing… nothing but a pathetic… d-drug addict who can't even take care of his own problems. He said that if I d-didn't resign on my own, he'd… find another way of making sure that I never… never practice medicine again."


	31. Chapter 31

At seven thirty the next morning, House was in his office

At seven thirty the next morning, House was in his office.

His team didn't have a current patient, and with him out on "sick leave" he didn't expect them to show up until at least nine – maybe later. However, he was taking no chances. Cuddy had decided to keep his department open, with Foreman in charge, until Tritter was out of the picture. House didn't want to risk running into a member of his team and having to explain why the man they had signed on to work under was no longer their boss.

He sat in his chair, slowly removing items from his large bookshelf and placing them into a large cardboard box. Every now and then, he would linger over one of them, staring down at it until he was no longer seeing the item in his hands, but rather the many years he had spent in this office, in this hospital.

He was completely unaware of his audience.

The blinds were drawn, closing out the prying eyes of any passersby in the hall – but the door was still exposed, and anyone who made a point of looking inside could clearly see him.

Cuddy stood outside his office, arms crossed over her chest as she watched House pack up his things. He had asked them to leave him to do it alone – but it hurt to watch the slow, painful process of disentangling himself from a place that had meant so much to him over the years.

As she silently watched, Wilson approached, a can of soda in each hand. He gave one to Cuddy, and she thanked him, but just held it for a few moments, not bothering to open it. He glanced between her and the focus of her gaze with concern.

"You all right?" he quietly asked after a moment.

Cuddy shook her head, swallowing her tears. "This isn't fair," she stated. "This… isn't right, Wilson. He shouldn't have to do this."

"It's just temporary," Wilson reminded her, his troubled gaze turning toward his friend. "He'll be coming back once we can take care of Tritter."

Cuddy shook her head again. "_He_ doesn't think it's temporary," she pointed out. "He doesn't believe we can stop Tritter. To House, this is just… just one more thing that bastard has taken from him." She looked at Wilson, eyes imploring him to understand. "The _last_ thing, Wilson. This – this job, his – his _mind_, and the chance to use it – are all he has left!"

"Not quite." A sad smile formed on Wilson's face. "He's still got us." He paused, a grimace twisting his mouth. "That's… why he's doing this. He's doing this… to protect _us_."

"Monster," Cuddy muttered as she turned her eyes back toward House, shaking her head again. "This just isn't right. It's not enough to… to hurt him and humiliate him, to get revenge. He wants to _destroy_ him… and he won't stop until he does."

"We'll stop him. We have to." There was a grim certainty to Wilson's voice. "He won't win. This is just… just a temporary defeat. Right now, before we know enough to go against him, it doesn't make any sense to provoke him. But once Jenna's able to find out a little more…"

"I wish he'd have agreed to work from home. There's no way that Tritter could have found out…"

"That's… not exactly true." Wilson gave her a rueful, apologetic look. "If he's watching House, he'd be likely to catch on eventually. And House is right. He'd be even more dangerous if he thought House had been working and trying to hide it from him."

"I know," Cuddy sighed. "It's just… it just hurts to… to see him like this. It's like he's… like he's giving up."

"No," Wilson declared. "He's not. He won't." He paused, placing a supportive hand on Cuddy's shoulder as she swiped angrily at a stray tear that found its way down her cheek. "We won't let him."

House didn't notice them outside his office, and he didn't notice when they made their way a few yards down the hall to Wilson's office. He had asked them to leave him to finish this task alone, and he believed they were respecting his wishes.

Now he wished he had let them help him.

It wasn't that the job of packing up his personal belongings that was overwhelming. It was the unexpected memories that surrounded him as he worked – the feeling of loss and ending and defeat that filled him. He stared down at the floor, taking a breath before he went on, struggling to control the feeling of displacement and isolation that swelled up inside him.

He didn't want to go.

His back to the door, House raised a hand to press against his eyes, trying to push back the dangerous prickling sensation of tears. A slight shudder passed through his shoulders as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He didn't hear the door open behind him, and the low, male voice from the doorway caught him by surprise, setting his heart racing and his over-taxed mind into a swirling panic.

"House! What are you doing here?"

_Tritter left House kneeling on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, as he wiped his own prints from Johnny's gun and pressed the weapon into the dead man's hand. House watched with dread as Tritter dragged the body to the edge of the cliff and tossed it over, then returned to his side._

_He froze, his heart pounding with terror as Tritter dragged him up by the belt strapped around his neck, holding him against the side of the car, slowly pressing closer, completely invading his captive's space and leaving him feeling trapped and helpless. The larger man's slow, invasive hand against House's bare skin sickened him, but he forced himself to stay still, unresisting, afraid of invoking Tritter's wrath if he dared to pull away._

_He cringed, drawing in a sharp, shuddering breath as Tritter's hand trailed inward from his bruised hip. He couldn't stand it. "Please," he whispered, his head lowered in submission and shaking slightly, "please, don't… please, don't…"_

_Tritter laughed softly, dragging his head backward and choking him slightly. His voice was quiet, calm as he ordered, "Look at me, House." When his victim immediately complied, Tritter met his gaze with a cold smile that gradually faded into an expression of pity and disgust. He leaned in close, and House's breath quickened at his sudden nearness, violent tremors shaking his body as he fought his instinct to pull away._

"_I already told you," Tritter sneered softly in House's ear. "I'm not gonna touch your filthy, disease-ridden body again, House." He paused for impact, adding in a cruel whisper, "You're _worthless_, House. Completely. Worthless. No one will ever want to touch you again."_

_House cringed with shame._

_Tritter wasn't finished. "Say it," he demanded in a harsh whisper._

_Humiliated tears streaking his face, House complied without hesitation. "I-I'm worthless," he whispered. "Worthless…"_

_It wasn't difficult._

_The words felt like truth._

_Tritter's hand brushed his cheek, and House shuddered with revulsion, but allowed the touch, too terrified to pull away. "Good boy." Tritter murmured his approval. His harsh whisper in House's ear chilled his blood as he added, "Don't forget it."_

_Abruptly he yanked House forward onto his face on the ground, jerking on the belt as he ordered in a hard, warning voice, "Do _not… move_." He pulled the belt tighter, crouching down low to add in a softer, almost patient voice, his strong hand trailing down House's back to rest just above his bound wrists. "If you fight me, House… if you try to get away…" Cruel fingers dug painfully into a dark bruise where House's cane had struck earlier in the evening. "… I'll make you _beg_ me to kill you. Do you understand?"_

_House nodded, biting back a cry of pain at Tritter's brutal touch._

"_Good…" _

_Tritter's voice was soothing again as, much to House's surprise, he unfastened the cuffs and allowed House's battered wrists to fall free. His arms dropped to his sides, tingling as the blood returned to them. He longed to touch the aching, raw places where the cuffs had been, but he didn't dare move without Tritter's permission._

_He listened as Tritter opened the trunk and took something out, then dropped the soft bundle on the ground in front of House._

"_Get up."_

_Hesitantly, House drew himself up onto his knees, cautious eyes focused on Tritter for any sign that he was doing something wrong, something that might draw Tritter's anger. _

_Tritter nodded his approval, clarifying, "All the way up. Get dressed."_

_Trembling, uncertain, House reached down to pick up his clothes. His hands were numb and clumsy, and it took him a couple of tries to hold onto the bundle. He raised it in front of him, staring down at the crumpled shirt, jacket, and pants for a moment. It felt as if years had passed since he'd last worn them, instead of hours._

"_Go on," Tritter prodded, a warning edge to his voice that pushed House into action. "Put them on."_

_House struggled to pull the shirt and jacket onto his battered arms, wincing at the pain in his abused back and chest as his motion jarred the bruised, sore muscles, and the fabric brushed his torn, abraded flesh. His hands trembled with exhaustion as he fumbled with the buttons. He had barely finished when Tritter grabbed him by the collar, jerking him roughly onto his feet and slamming him into the car again._

_House bit back a cry of pain, flinching but not resisting as Tritter moved in close. His voice was low, menacing, as he snarled, "Think you could move a little _slower_, Dr. House? It's not like we're in a _hurry_ or anything!" _

_He slammed House into the car again, deliberately knocking his tailbone against the handle of the door. The blow stole his breath with agony, and House could not completely suppress a strangled cry of pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered, pleading, submissive. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please…"_

_Tritter released him with a rough shove, ordering coldly, "Speed it up."_

_As the pain faded, House wondered if Tritter had guessed that he probably couldn't get to his feet on his own. Once he was standing, he could stay on his feet all right, but he didn't think he could have managed to stand without help. He leaned gingerly against the side of the car as he struggled to pull his legs up into his jeans, one at a time – each movement a separate agony._

_Tritter threw his shoes down on the ground at his feet, and House weakly slipped his feet into them, relieved that in a rare and favorable coincidence, he had chosen to wear actual black dress shoes that day, in lieu of his usual sneakers. It was a tremendous relief – because he wasn't sure he could have managed to get his sneakers tied._

_While he was dressing, Tritter folded the blanket in the backseat over to cover up the bloody surface where House had sat on the way there. House was just finishing getting dressed when Tritter suddenly appeared at his side, and he jumped, panicked. Tritter caught the end of the belt, pulling his head back, deliberately choking him as he smiled coldly, his face inches from House's face._

"_What's the matter?" he sneered, dragging the belt backward across the roof of the car, pulling it tight enough to nearly pull House off his feet. Panicked, unable to draw breath, House gasped uselessly, feet scrabbling for purchase against the ground – but he never raised a hand to defend himself, not even to pull the belt away from his throat._

_Tritter's smile widened as he finally released his grip on the belt, allowing House to fall forward, desperately drawing in deep draughts of oxygen as Tritter finally removed the belt completely. _

"_Good," he murmured his approval. "Good boy. You know better than to fight me, now, don't you?"_

_House nodded hurriedly – then flinched, gasping in alarm as he felt Tritter's hands at his waist. His hands rose in instinctive defense, then clenched into useless fists as he dropped them to his sides again, fighting his impulse to resist._

"_Shhh," Tritter soothed him. "That's good, House. That's good… Just keep still…" His hands were deceptively gentle as he threaded the belt back through House's belt loops and fastened it. "Don't think you could have managed that yourself, could you?"_

_House shook his head, his panic subsiding as he realized Tritter's intentions._

_Tritter leaned in close, his hands still on the belt drawing House forward as he asked softly, "What do you say?"_

"_Th-thank you," House whispered, humiliated, but too broken to resist._

"_Good…" _

_Tritter nodded. Then, abruptly, his gentle manner vanished, and he grabbed House by the arm and jerked him around to the other side of the car, heedless of his battered body. Roughly he shoved him into the backseat. House drew in a sharp breath as Tritter took out his gun again, pressing it under his chin and forcing his head back. _

"_You try anything stupid… try to get out of the car… try to do something to me while I'm driving… anything stupid like that…" Tritter pressed the gun into his throat, gagging him as he concluded, "… I'll kill you, House. Understand?"_

_House nodded. "Please, I won't… please…"_

_Tritter released him, slamming the door hard and getting into the driver's seat._

_The whole drive back, Tritter kept up a continuous stream of verbal brutality, repeating the events of the evening, laughing, making jokes as if he was speaking to a friend, and not a man he had just spent the evening raping and torturing. He made cruel, belittling comments about House's body, about his reactions to the abuse, about how "easily" he had been broken…_

_By the time they pulled into a deserted corner of the parking garage, House's entire being was awash with shame. _

_Tritter got out of the car, and House steeled himself to be dragged out after him. But instead, Tritter went around to the passenger side of the car and got in… which was decidedly worse._

"_Okay," Tritter began, throwing a casual arm around House's shoulders, ignoring his wince of pain. Tritter's voice was soft, leading, as he went on, "here's what you're going to do. Listen carefully, because if you get any of this wrong? I'm coming after you again, House. You – and everybody you care about. Listening?"_

_House nodded, too frightened to speak._

"_You're going to go in there and get help – naturally. I mean, I wouldn't want you to bleed to death in the middle of the parking garage. But you're not going to say a word about me, or my friends – not going to tell anybody who did this to you. Are you? You already know what'll happen if you do."_

_House shook his head almost frantically._

_Casually, in a manner that was almost bored, Tritter took out his pocketknife again, flipping it idly open and closed as he spoke. House felt sick, wanting to look away, but unable to take his eyes from the blade – already stained with his blood._

"_And one more thing…"_

_He pressed the blade against House's cheek, sliding it slowly downward as he continued with a cold, malicious smile. "You're going to go in there… as soon as you're able to conduct any sort of business again… and you're going to hand in your resignation."_

_House stared at him, startled._

"_That's right." Tritter nodded with a smirk. "You don't deserve to practice medicine, House. You know that. You're a pathetic… worthless… addict… and you have no business dealing with patients at all. Why – you could end up hurting someone…" Tritter's tone was ironic, mocking, as he pressed the knife to House's throat and pushed his head back. "You're going to quit. If I find out you're still working at Princeton-Plainsboro – or anywhere, for that matter – you'll regret it, House. And I think you know enough to believe me – don't you?"_

_Still stunned, numb at the thought of what Tritter was demanding, House slowly nodded._

"_Good." _

_Tritter roughly patted his cheek, removing the knife from his throat. He reached across House, pausing deliberately when House tensed at his nearness. He smiled, slowing his movements as he opened House's door. He grabbed his arm to push him out – but a moment before he did, he plunged his knife viciously into House's side._

_House let out a startled cry of pain, one arm pressing across his stomach, his hand covering the bleeding wound as he stared up at Tritter in shock._

_Tritter just smiled nastily. "Wouldn't want it to be too easy for you. You _like_ a challenge – don't you, Dr. House?"_

_Without another word, Tritter shoved him out of the car onto the hard concrete floor. House was barely aware of what was happening, in shock from pain and blood loss, as Tritter got out of the car on his own side and came around. He stopped on his way to the driver's seat to jerk House to his feet again, a cruel smile on his face._

"_I can't just leave you like that," he said with false sympathy. He roughly turned House in the direction of the stairs. "Help is that way," he told him as he let him go and got into the car again. Without looking back, he drove away, leaving House standing there – alone and confused and in pain – to find his own way up the stairs into the hospital._


	32. Chapter 32

House just stood there, listening to the eerie silence that filled the deserted parking garage, once the sound of Tritter's car had vanished

_House just stood there, listening to the eerie silence that filled the deserted parking garage, once the sound of Tritter's car had vanished. His thoughts were racing, screaming at him to get out of sight, get out of the parking garage, before Tritter changed his mind and came back – and yet at the same time, he felt strangely calm… numb._

_He took a half-hearted, stumbling step, only to collapse forward onto his knees on the floor, retching violently. The force of the sudden illness in combination with blood loss and all the other trauma nearly made him black out. As he struggled for consciousness, some part of his mind was aware, in spite of his pain and shock, that if he gave in to those things now, he might not live through this._

_He opened his eyes, fighting to see past the colored sparks of light that obscured his vision. All at once, his gaze fell upon something he have never expected – or wanted – to see again._

_His cane._

_He hadn't noticed when Tritter had tossed it out of the car at his feet – a final, ironic gesture of false mercy, to help the cripple make his way to the help he needed to survive. _

_House didn't want to touch it. The thought of it made him feel like he was going to vomit again – but he had no choice. His subconscious was working to preserve his life, although in that moment he was not aware of any conscious thought. Mentally numb, he was in a quiet state of shock, and yet a part of him knew that without the cane he now found abhorrent, he'd never make it up the stairs into the hospital._

The hospital… help…_ A swift surge of unexpected hope went through him, as he remembered. _Wilson… Wilson's here, working late…

_His battered wrist ached as he clutched the handle of the cane, steadying it against the floor with an extreme effort, and dragging his weary, abused body up off the floor with even greater difficulty. Every breath was a struggle, every movement agony, as he started moving slowly toward the stairs across the parking garage._

_What felt like an hour later, he finally reached the base of the stairs. He looked up at the series of twelve-inch high obstacles before him. Each step might as well have been a small mountain. He sank down on the first step, his entire body shaking with the effort of crossing the garage in the first place. He leaned forward, resting his head on the step in front of him, gasping in deep breaths of cool air in an effort not to throw up again._

_His stomach clenched, heavy with a cold, empty sensation of dread. He crossed his arms across his torso again, shivering with cold and shock as his mind filled with vivid images of the past few hours. The sound of a distant car engine drew his head up swiftly, eyes wide and panicked as he looked over his shoulder for any sign of danger. _

He's coming back… He changed his mind… He's going to kill me… or… or worse… He's going to take me back there and… and…

_Blind terror drove House to grasp the banister, ignoring the pain that tore through his bruised, torn wrists as they were forced to support his weight. He was barely on his feet before he pitched forward onto the stairs again, in too much pain to maintain his balance without his cane. His trembling hand fumbled to grasp it, bracing it against the second step and, between the cane and the banister, finally finding his footing._

Please, please, no… no, don't let him find me, don't let him come back… Just let me get inside, just let me get to Wilson, _please_…

_House's desperate, panicked mind formed silent prayers to a God whose existence he had long denied._

_This was no time for taking chances._

_His shaking hand found its way into his pocket, closing tightly around the tiny orange bottle inside. When he finally managed to get the lid off, he shook two pills into his palm, then swiftly swallowed them, unexpectedly fighting a gag reflex that he hadn't had in years._

_Bracing himself to ignore the pain, knowing only that he had to get to lights, people, and some semblance of safety, House fought his way slowly and painfully to the top of the stairs. Once there, he clung to the handle of the door to hold himself up, gasping for breath, fighting just to stay on his feet – because he knew that if he went down this time, he might not be able to get up again._

_He stayed there for a long time, trapped between two separate terrors – the fear of being followed by Tritter and dragged back to a repeat performance of the hell he had experienced already that night; and the fear of running into other people in the halls of PPTH, and not being able to hide what had happened to him. _

Wilson… if I can just get to Wilson…

_Ultimately, it was an easy decision._

_Blocking out the images of Tritter, just behind him, as well as the fear of who he might run into in the halls, House focused his mind on Wilson, picturing the path to his office, counting the steps until he would reach safety._

If I can just get there… just get to his office… I'll be okay… everything will be okay…

_He tried to make himself believe it, tried not to think about the fact that nothing would ever be okay again. _

Wilson… if I can just get to Wilson…

_And then, the door was within his grasp. He pushed it open with a trembling hand… and the soft, warm light from Wilson's desk lamp seemed to dispel a bit of the cold settled in the pit of his stomach. He felt the tremors intensify as a sense of relief washed over him, and he stepped into the place that was, and had been for so long… his sanctuary._

_It was over… and he was safe…_

"House! House, it's okay… it's okay, it's over… you're safe… you're safe now…"

Wilson's soft, intent voice broke through House's memories, and he gradually returned to the reality of the moment. He realized with great embarrassment that he was quietly sobbing, clinging to someone who was crouched just in front of him – _Wilson_ – on the floor on his knees in the corner of his office.

And they were not alone.

"I told you to go! Seriously, is he right? Are you all idiots? Just get out of here!"

He heard Cuddy's voice, angry and agitated, and House looked up to see his team standing there, gaping with varying degrees of shock, horror, and disbelief on their faces. With a quiet groan, he lowered his head, suddenly grateful for Wilson's position between him and the rest of the room, as well as for the cautious but firm grip of Wilson's hands on his arms, steadying him, reassuring him.

"It's all right," Wilson murmured, his hand running soothingly up and down House's arm. "You're okay… you're okay…"

House looked up at him sharply, startled by the thick, shaky sound of Wilson's voice – and was stunned to see the tears that streaked Wilson's face. The younger man did not seem to have even noticed that he was crying. His dark eyes were soft with anguished sympathy, and… with something else, something House couldn't quite identify.

Finally, he looked away, focusing on Wilson's hands… and realizing that for the first time since the attack, the touch of a man's hand was _not_ driving him into a fit of terror. Momentarily forgetting his caution in his desire to comfort, Wilson slipped an arm around House's shoulders, further shielding him from the invasive eyes of the others – and House found that the contact _was_ comforting.

"House… _are_ you okay?"

House just stared up at him in quiet wonder, startled by the depth of Wilson's concern.

Startled… and deeply moved.

"All I did was say his name." Foreman sounded distressed, shaking his head as he looked at Cuddy, anxious and uncertain. "I… I don't know what happened. He just… freaked out…"

"What's the matter with him?" Chase asked, clearly concerned, not taking his eyes off House.

Cameron just stood there, staring in horror.

"For the last time, all of you, _out_!" Cuddy raised her voice nearly to a yell. "This is none of your business!"

Slowly, reluctantly, they began to file out of the office, lingering, clearly hoping for answers of some kind, but knowing better than to push Cuddy any farther. They were only a few yards down the hall, talking in hushed, curious voices, when Cuddy let out a heavy sigh and stepped out into the hall after them.

"Stop where you are," she ordered sharply. "You're not going anywhere. Stay right here until I get back."

They stopped, waiting expectantly for her in the hall. Cuddy stepped back into the office, closing the door before directing her attention to a much calmer House.

"How do you want to handle this? What do you want me to tell them? Anything?"

Her voice was gentle, patient, making it clear that whatever he decided, she was willing to go along with his choice. This was his secret, to conceal or reveal in whatever way made him least uncomfortable.

House was silent for a long moment, raising a hand to cover his face as he drew in a deep breath. Finally he looked up at Cuddy, resignation mingling with shame in his eyes.

"The… the truth is better than… whatever rumors will spread if you don't tell them anything. And… at this point they… they must know that something's… very wrong here."

The disgust and humiliation in his voice was barely veiled by self-deprecating humor. It was clear that he didn't want his team to know anything about what had happened to him. But that was no longer an option.

"Are you sure?" Wilson asked him gently, and House saw a tenderness and compassion in his eyes that brought him dangerously close to tears again. "You don't have to tell them anything."

"Yes I do," House replied with a heavy sigh. "They may be idiots… but they're not stupid. They haven't spent the last three years working under me for nothing. They'll figure it out. I'd… I'd rather they didn't feel the need to try. This way, we can tell them… just enough. Tell them _what_ happened, but… not _who_."

Cuddy nodded, understanding, and stepped out into the hall. As the door slowly closed behind her, House heard her voice drifting away. "All right. All three of you. My office, now…"

Left alone, House and Wilson were both silent for a long moment. House felt a tremendous sense of relief, his tense shoulders slumping, as the need to hold up the façade of control disappeared. Suddenly, with a clarity he had not experienced in a long time, House _knew_:

This was _Wilson_… and he was safe.

He could be open, honest, allow his fears and uncertainties to show, without fear of having them thrown in his face later or used against him. He could _trust_ him.

He already did.

"House," Wilson began in a tentative, apologetic voice, "this might not be a good time, and… I know you're kind of shaken up right now… but… I've been thinking, while you've been…"

"Huddling on the floor like a scared kitten?" House supplied helpfully, in a tone of mild disgust at his own behavior.

Wilson grimaced. "I was going to say… packing." He shrugged. "I just… I don't think this is right. You shouldn't have to do this…"

"And your sweet, innocent little patients shouldn't have to die ugly deaths in pain," House shot back. "Things happen, and sometimes you don't have a choice."

"But you _do_ have a choice, House," Wilson insisted. "By the time we get back to the apartment, we're going to have security cameras, an alarm system, emergency phones… You're never going to be completely alone, not until Tritter's taken care of. You don't have to be afraid of him, House. He won't be able to get to you…"

"He'll find a way."

"If he tries," Wilson pointed out in a quiet, intent voice, "all he'll do is give us evidence against him. You'll have access to help within _seconds _of his trying anything, House. You'll be safe – I promise you. But… but you _can't_ let him do this to you. You can't let him… take the one thing you've got left. You can't let him… _destroy_ who you are."

House didn't respond. He couldn't argue with Wilson; he knew that quitting _would_ destroy him – as Tritter had no doubt intended. He also knew that if he did anything to cross Tritter, the man would definitely try to get back at him.

The question was… would he succeed?

"House… look at me."

Reluctantly, House met Wilson's gaze.

"You can't tell me you want to do this."

House rolled his eyes in frustration. "Of course I don't _want_ to do this…"

"Then don't," Wilson interrupted, and House looked him in the eye again, surprised by the simplicity of the statement. "House – I don't care if I have to hire an armed guard to accompany you everywhere, 24/7. I am going to make sure that you are safe. I am _not _going to let him hurt you again."

Despite his fears, Wilson detected a glimmer of hope in House's eyes, and seized onto it, persisting while he had the opportunity.

"You've spent your entire life building this career, House. You love what you do, and what you've worked so hard to have. And you _deserve _to have it. We're not going to let him take that away from you. If he can order you to quit your job, then he can order you to… to hop up and down on one foot while patting your head…" Wilson paused, his tone growing more serious as he went on, "… or… to meet him somewhere in the middle of the night alone, or… or to shoot me in my sleep…"

House's eyes were wide with alarm. "I wouldn't…"

"Not the point." Wilson was quiet for a moment, holding House's gaze as he continued in a quiet, intent voice. "Do you see what I'm telling you? It starts with your job – but where does it end? If you're going to let him do this to you… honestly, House, what's the point?" Wilson shook his head helplessly. "What's the point of fighting for your life at all, if you're just going to let that life be one more thing he can use to torture you?"

At a loss, House lowered his eyes, swallowing hard. There was nothing he could say to counter the logic of Wilson's words.

His life in Tritter's hands was not a life worth living.

"House," Wilson insisted, waiting until House looked him in the eye again, "we can do this. We can beat him. And… and I can make sure that you're safe until we do. Please. Please, just trust me on this, House. Can you do that? Do you trust me?"

House studied his face, his own expression solemn and searching. Finally, his face broke into a soft, tentative half-smile, as he nodded slowly.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "Yes. I do."


	33. Chapter 33

"Okay…" Foreman waited until the door to Cuddy's office was closed to speak

"Okay…" Foreman waited until the door to Cuddy's office was closed to speak. "…_that_ was creepy. What the hell is wrong with him? What's he so freaked out over?"

"Yeah," Chase added as he sat down on the sofa with a soft snort of humorless laughter. "_He's_ usually the scary one."

As she sat down beside Chase, Cameron still said nothing, just watching Cuddy expectantly.

Cuddy slowly seated herself on the edge of the small table across from them, taking a deep breath as she steeled herself to tell them something she herself still struggled to accept. She made eye contact, gauging their reactions, as she spoke slowly, cautiously.

"A week ago… House was… attacked."

A momentary silence was abruptly filled with multiple questions from three different voices, all vying to fill the same space.

"What do you mean by 'attacked'?"

Chase's calm question trailed the others, standing out in the brief quiet, his voice cautious and quiet. He was studying her expression carefully, and Cuddy sensed that he suspected more than she had already revealed. He appeared somewhat subdued, embarrassed, regretting his flippant remark only moments earlier, in the light of Cuddy's revelation.

When Cuddy didn't answer immediately, Foreman spoke up, alarm on his face at the possibilities raised by Chase's question, and her apparent reluctance to answer it. "You mean robbed, right? A mugging, or something?"

"Probably more like a bar fight," Cameron guessed, rolling her eyes. "He's good at pissing people off."

But no one, not even Cameron, actually believed it was a bar fight.

If it was nothing more than a simple fight, that didn't explain why Cuddy seemed to be taking this so seriously – not to mention House's disturbing behavior in his office. The three glanced at each other hesitantly, unwilling to believe that anything so awful as to provoke House's reaction could have possibly happened.

Cuddy closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

"What I'm about to tell you does _not_ leave this room. I'm telling you this with House's permission, and only because he prefers your knowing the truth to whatever stories you might come up with, left to your own devices. By betraying his privacy in this matter, you'd be humiliating him… and placing his _life _in danger. Anyone who tells _anyone_ what I'm about to tell you will be immediately fired. No excuses… no explanations. _Gone_. Is that clear?"

She received three shocked, solemn nods in response.

"It happened when House was leaving the hospital last week. His bike was in the parking garage. He was… he was abducted by… by four men. They… took him to a secluded area, and they… kept him there for… for hours. They…" She hesitated, then forced the words out in a rush, before she could lose the courage to say them. "They raped him."

She couldn't look at the faces of House's team, knew she wouldn't be able to go on if she did. She pressed on, her voice trembling, aware that she was probably saying more than was necessary, but afraid to stop talking, afraid to face their reactions. "They raped him, and they beat him, and… tortured him, terrorized him for hours. Then, they brought him back to the hospital and dumped him in the parking garage. They… they nearly killed him."

She didn't try to conceal the tears that streaked her face as she went on, her voice calmer now that the worst of the shocking news was out. "I'm sorry you had to see what… what happened back there, in his office. He's… struggling to… to hold it together at all. He's suffering from… nightmares, and flashbacks… panic attacks…"

"PTSD," Chase interjected with a slow nod, his eyes wide and stunned, his trained diagnostic mind automatically supplying the answer despite his shock.

"Oh, God…" Foreman's voice was hushed and horrified as he leaned forward, momentarily resting his head in his hands before looking up at Cuddy in dismay. "I startled him. I must have triggered… shit…" The last word was barely over a whisper, as he looked down at the table in front of him, not really seeing it.

"You couldn't have known," Cuddy reassured him, shaking her head. "There's no way you could have. House… didn't want anybody else to know, but… that's not an option, now."

"Are the authorities involved?" Chase asked in a quiet, subdued voice. "Have any arrests been made?"

Cuddy shook her head, steeling herself for the inevitable reaction to her answer. "House… chose not to report it."

As she had expected, the reaction to her words was immediate and incredulous, as all three spoke at once. She held up a hand for silence, and their voices gradually died down, waiting for her to explain further. However, Cuddy had no intention of giving them any further explanation.

"It's his legal right to refuse to report it if he want to," she reminded them.

"But how can he _want_ to let these creeps get away with it?" Cameron objected, quiet outrage in her voice. "How can he _not_…?"

Cuddy's tone was severe, warning, as she met Cameron's angry, tearful eyes. "It's _his_ choice – and none of you are going to give him a hard time about it. Let him deal with this in his own way…"

"Which means, not at all," Foreman muttered under his breath, leaning back on the sofa with a sigh, arms crossed over his chest. "It's not like House was exactly emotionally healthy _before_. How is he even going to function, now that _this_ has happened?"

Cuddy hesitated, considering, before she replied slowly, "It's going to take… time, and… and probably therapy…"

"Good luck getting House into therapy," Chase pointed out, though there was clear concern in his skeptical voice. "I think he'd rather lose his mind."

"He was packing," Cameron suddenly remembered, her voice quiet and flat, her expression one of shock, as if she was still processing what Cuddy had told them. "He was packing up all his things. Is he… is he _leaving_?"

"Temporarily." Cuddy nodded. "Until he feels that he's up to working again. In the interim, Dr. Foreman, you will be in charge of the Diagnostics Department."

They were all quiet, taking in the weight of her words.

"I know this is… a lot to take in," Cuddy gently acknowledged, once again making eye contact, making sure they were focused on her before she went on.

Her voice was patient, but with an edge of steel to it that let them know she meant every word. "House has been through… an unimaginable ordeal. He's suffered more in one night than most of us will suffer in a lifetime – thank God. The last thing he needs is misguided good intentions making things harder on him."

She paused for impact, continuing calmly, "I'm going back to check on him. I know this is… a shock. The three of you can take as long as you need right here. You don't have to leave my office and go back to work until you feel you're ready."

She held Cameron's gaze a bit longer than the others, before adding, "When you _do_ leave my office… this conversation is over. You will not discuss this with anyone else, and you will not mention it to House. If he chooses to bring it up with any of you, that's different. But you will _not_ bring it up to him. You will treat him the same as you have always treated him – with an added measure of caution."

The uncertain expressions on their faces prompted her to explain further. "Dr. Foreman, Dr. Chase – it would be wise to watch your tone of voice around him. Don't speak to him until he's seen you. Male voices seem to be… particularly difficult for him. And all of you… no matter how much you might want to offer… comfort…"

She allowed her gaze to linger on Cameron as she finished quietly, "…do _not_ under any circumstances touch him, especially when he's not expecting it. If hell freezes over, and he touches you first, that's different. Otherwise – hands to yourselves."

Cameron swallowed hard, looking a little guilty, and Cuddy grimly congratulated herself on the accuracy of her instincts. Silent, Cameron nodded her assent, as did the others when Cuddy turned her expectant attention toward them. She sighed wearily, sadness in her eyes as she remembered that the rules she was laying out would not have to be considered for all that long.

"At any rate," she added, "after this afternoon, he'll be gone, indefinitely, and you won't have to worry about any of this, except for the confidentiality aspects of it. If you have any other questions, anything you're not sure about, come find me."

She rose to her feet, concluding pointedly, "_Later_. Right now, I'm going back to check on House."

Cuddy was surprised and confused when she walked into House's office to find the cardboard box empty, and his belongings arranged as they always had been on his desk and shelves. He was seated in his chair, his arms folded on his desk, his face hidden within them. Wilson stood beside him, one hand gently rubbing his neck in a casual gesture of soothing affection. Wilson had been talking quietly to House, but he fell silent when she entered the room, looking up at her with a bright, eager smile.

"Hey," she greeted them cautiously, keeping her tone mild and even as her questioning gaze passed from Wilson to House, who slowly raised his head to meet her eyes with a tentative, anxious attempt at a smile. "What's up? I thought we were packing…"

"We're not," Wilson explained, unable to contain the gleeful note in his voice. "We're staying!"

Cuddy's eyes widened with surprise. "_We_… are?"

Her gaze was directed toward Wilson, but House answered her instead, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous and unnecessary use of the plural pronoun. "_We_ are," he confirmed, meeting her eyes – and his mocking expression faded, becoming serious as he let out a slow, heavy sigh.

"I… don't care what Tritter says," he explained, though his tone was not quite convincing. "Either he can get to me… or he can't… but… either way, that's what's going to happen. Eventually. If he's going to kill me, he's going to kill me no matter what I do. And… I'd _rather_ be dead than let him run my life."

After Cuddy left, House's team sat in silence for a few minutes, quietly processing the horrifying information she had given them, trying to come to terms with circumstances none of them would ever have thought possible.

This was _House_.

Things like this happened to other people, _weaker_ people – victims.

Things like this didn't happen to strong, clever individuals who were capable of defending themselves.

Things like this didn't happen to _House_.

"So… why do you think he doesn't want to report it?" Foreman's voice was quiet, thoughtful. He didn't look at either of the others as he spoke, didn't want to see the mingled pity and revulsion he felt mirrored in their faces.

"Why do you think half of all sexual assaults go unreported?" Chase countered grimly. "And that's across the board. Statistics for male victims are much worse."

"And don't forget, this is House we're talking about," Cameron pointed out, her voice choked with tears she was still trying to stifle. "He never likes to show any kind of weakness. You think he'd voluntarily tell _anyone_ about this?"

"He voluntarily told _someone_," Foreman reminded her, gesturing toward Cuddy's office around them. "If not Cuddy, then Wilson. You'd think he'd want to be sure these guys were off the street… couldn't come after him again. House might not like to show weakness, but he's not stupid."

Chase frowned, studying Foreman's pensive expression. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking there's a hell of a lot she didn't tell us."

Cameron frowned, wiping a hand across her eyes. "That's his right, isn't it? She said she was talking to us with House's permission. I'd guess that means she was telling us as much as he wanted her to." Her tone was warning, defensive, clearly irritated with their speculations.

"House wouldn't _want_ to tell us anything," Foreman argued. "And he didn't have to. That whole scene in his office didn't tell us anything. I mean, it was weird, yeah, but… there was no reason why he _had_ to tell us. Unless…"

"Unless he didn't want us trying to figure it out for ourselves," Chase concluded. He saw where Foreman's train of thought was headed. "You think it's a fake? Think House and Cuddy are trying to throw us off the trail of something else – whatever's _really_ going on here?"

"You two _did see_ him in there, right?" Cameron interrupted, voice trembling with anger. "Do you honestly think he'd _make up_ that kind of a story… and _tell_ it to _us_? Can you think of anything more humiliating for House than having us think this happened to him?"

Both men were silent, having no answer for her very valid point.

"I can," Cameron continued, standing up, glaring at them both accusingly as she stalked toward the door. "Having us know every gory little _detail_ of what happened to him. If he's not telling us everything – so what? That's his right. Just… let it go. Leave the man a little bit of privacy… and what little dignity he's got left."

She stormed out of the room, furious, leaving Chase and Foreman feeling subdued and chastised.

"She's right," Chase admitted with a sigh. "None of our business, really. And it's not like it makes a difference. What's done is done, and we can't change it by finding out more ugly details. House has a right to his secrets."

Foreman nodded silently in reluctant acceptance, thought he pensive expression on his face revealed that he wasn't quite ready to completely give up on figuring out this particular mystery.

While the two men sat in Cuddy's office a while longer, Cameron made her way through the halls of PPTH, lost in thought.

_Foreman's right. There's some reason he doesn't want to report this._

Her brow furrowed, her jaw set with determination, as her pace quickened.

_The last thing House needs is a whole group of people following him around, trying to figure out whatever it is he's hiding. He must be humiliated enough already, knowing that Foreman and Chase even know about this at all. At least _I _know how to be discreet._

She caught Wilson's gaze with a sympathetic smile as she stepped into the conference room in search of a patient file, giving the three people gathered in House's office a slightly awkward nod and wave as she stepped back out into the hall. She sighed with resignation as she headed back toward the clinic with the necessary chart in hand, her thoughts still focused on House's situation.

_Too bad he's leaving. If he was going to be around a little longer, I'd find out on my own why he won't go to the authorities… and he'd never even know I was looking in the first place._


	34. Chapter 34

The hospital had never looked so imposing

The hospital had never looked so imposing.

House hesitated at the entrance, Wilson at his side. He stared up at the large sign over the door with large, apprehensive eyes, a solemn expression of resignation on his face. He knew that once he walked through those double glass doors, there would be no turning back. He would have broken Tritter's commands, and whatever retribution the man had in mind would be aimed in his direction.

Suddenly, he didn't feel as brave as he had felt, huddled in the corner of his office two days earlier, when he had hesitantly decided to defy Tritter's orders.

_And isn't_ that _a sad and pathetic thought if I've ever had one___

"You can do this." Wilson made a point of speaking softly, before he placed a light, cautious hand on House's shoulder. "I know it's hard"

"Are you mocking my disability?" House demanded in a tone of exaggerated offense, raising an eyebrow at Wilson. "Are you insinuating I don't think I can _walk_ through those doors?" House's shoulders straightened, shaking Wilson's hand off his shoulder in the process, but the look in his eyes told Wilson that it was not really intentional. "I'm not handicapped," House declared. "I'm handi-capable." He smirked at the cliché before turning back toward the doors and taking a firm, deliberate step forward. "I can do _anything_."

Wilson stood back and watched him as he walked through the double doors, the amused smile on his face fading into a more serious expression of affectionate concern. "Yeah, House," he replied quietly, though House was too far ahead to hear him. "I know you can."

House was barely through the front doors when he heard Cuddy's voice, surprisingly sharp and accusing as she stuck her head out the door of her office.

"House. My office, now."

House smirked at the nurse behind the counter, who was giving him a curious look. He felt uncertain and self-conscious, wondering how much, if anything, had already slipped out to make its way through the hospital's gossip networks. House quickly covered with an overused but suitably offensive joke.

"She just can't get enough," he explained to the nurse with a shrug and a lecherous wink.

When the girl just rolled her eyes and turned away in disgust, House felt a sense of satisfaction and reassurance that he hadn't lost either his edge or his reputation among the hospital staff. He strolled casually into Cuddy's office, managing to conceal his anxiety and apprehension until he was seated across from her.

"I've barely walked in the door and I'm in trouble already?" His tone was mild, teasing, but there was clear worry in his eyes as he searched her face.

She gave him a reassuring smile. "No, everything's fine" She shrugged. "Just… have to keep up appearances, don't we?"

Worry shifted to irritation as House interrupted to venture a guess. "You just wanted me to check in with you before starting work again, so you can judge for yourself whether or not I need a babysitter, or whether or not I should even be here at all – how close to the edge I am right now. Right?"

Cuddy ignored his terse, accusing tone, keeping her own calm and pleasant as she smiled at him and held out a patient file across the desk. "Wrong. You've got a case."

House stared at the file in surprise, before raising questioning eyes to hers. "You really think that's a good idea right now?"

"No. I think a better idea would be for me to pay you to sit around your office all day with nothing to do but think, and pay your team to sit around and stare at you." Cuddy's sarcasm was gentle, a single brow raised in challenge as she held his gaze. "That's obviously a more efficient, productive use of your time and theirs than saving a patient's life."

House stared at the file, swallowing hard. "I can't even save myself, Cuddy," he said at last, his voice quiet and carefully even. "What if I can't focus? What if I'm too distracted to to do my job?"

"You need to do your job because you _need_ a distraction, House," Cuddy reminded him. "I know you – and I know that once you start thinking about this case, figuring out this mystery – you won't be able to think about anything else until it's solved." She paused, waiting for him to meet her eyes again. Her voice softened as she added, "And I think that'd be a _really_ good thing right now."

House was still hesitant. He looked at the file again, still making no move to take it. "I I don't know"

"Patient is exhibiting symptoms of early onset Alzheimer's , in combination with intermittent arrhythmia and tachycardia"

House shook his head, only half-listening. "Maybe you should give it to"

"The patient is twelve."

House immediately fell silent, a surprised frown creasing his brow, his head tilting slightly as he regarded the chart in her hand with new interest. For the first time since the assault… something else had captured his attention. He met Cuddy's eyes again, unable to suppress a reluctant smile at the triumphant, almost mischievous expression on her face.

She knew she had won, even before he reached out in exaggerated frustration to snatch the folder from her hand.

House's first day back at work was not quite the nightmare he had anticipated.

Close.

But at the end of the day, he was still alive, and so was his patient, so… not quite.

When he first walked into the conference room, it was just as he had expected – sickeningly humiliating.

All three of his employees seemed to be desperately trying to behave as if they didn't know about what had happened to him – which was just weird and awkward and annoying, considering that House knew very well that they _did_ know about it.

Foreman's and Chase's efforts were admirable, and they managed to keep any trace of sympathy or shock or whatever else they might be feeling about him to themselves – but for the entirety of the day, they seemed utterly incapable of making eye contact with him.

House wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.

Cameron, for her part, seemed to have no such hang-ups with eye contact. It seemed that every time he glanced in her direction, she was staring at him with resigned, sorrowful eyes, much as she might look at a puppy that had been hit by a car, and so badly damaged that the only option left was to put it to sleep – which only served to make House feel even more like the lost cause that he already suspected he was.

However, Cuddy was right about one thing.

Once they started the differential, it was a matter of moments before House's attention was focused on the mystery, rather than his own personal tragedy. He couldn't help but fall into his regular rhythm, pushing and pulling his team along toward the correct conclusion… and before long, his staff followed suit.

The case was intriguing enough to hold their attention as well as his own, and for a little while, House was able to forget about the dark cloud of dread that had been covering him for the last week.

When he sent them away to run the first series of tests, Cameron was the last to go. She started out the door, then stopped, hesitating in the doorway. After a moment, she began tentatively. "House"

"Unless you're about to argue about the test I just ordered, or tell me what a brilliant idea it was, please don't speak and go away." He cut her off abruptly, his eyes focused on the patient file on the table in front of him. He looked up then, considering a moment, but still not looking at her as he amended, "Actually, if it's that first thing, you can go away, too."

Cameron's mouth closed without saying another word, and though he still had not looked at her, she nodded and wisely walked away.

That was the only real close call he had during the course of the day. The case kept both him and his team busy enough that they really had no time to question him, or attempt to comfort him, or whatever reactions they might have thought appropriate to this situation which _had_ no appropriate reactions.

Finally, the patient correctly diagnosed and on her way to recovery, House sent his team home, and waited in his office for Wilson to finish his paperwork and be ready to go home.

It was only then that the dark shadows that had been hiding in the corners of his mind throughout the day made their presence known again.

_Now you've gone and done it____ You saved the patient, but you've just screwed_ yourself. _He's gonna be furious now____ He's gonna come after you, and he's gonna punish you for going against his orders____ You'll never make it home alive tonight___

Every light in his office was turned on, and he sat with his desk chair against the wall, so that he could see every possible angle of entrance from where he sat, waiting – and still, he felt the cold tendrils of terror winding their way around his heart, squeezing tighter and tighter in his chest until he felt like he couldn't breathe. His heart was pounding, his breathing rapid, his palms damp as he crossed his arms over his stomach and closed his eyes, willing the irrational reaction away with no success.

_I'm dead____ I'm so dead____ He's gonna be waiting for me, outside, in the parking lot, at my apartment____ I'll never see him coming___

"Hey House?"

Cuddy's gentle, concerned voice drew him out of the dark spiral of his thoughts. He looked up at her, grateful for the distraction, as well as the company, but not particularly reassured of his safety. She picked up the visitor's chair on the other side of his desk, bringing it with her and placing it close to his chair before sitting down. She reached out to take his hands in hers, gently pulling them down, pulling him out of his defensive stance.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, searching his gaze as she spoke.

House just shook his head, his eyes solemn and troubled. "This was a huge mistake."

Cuddy frowned, momentarily confused, as she shook her head. "No, it wasn't. You did fine today, House. You saved that girl's life."

"But Tritter's got to know already I know he does," House reminded her, feeling sick to his stomach as he spoke the words. "He's probably already waiting to to"

"House," Cuddy interrupted in a voice that was stern in spite of her compassion for him, "listen to me. He can't get to you – and he won't try, not unless he's an idiot. There are security cameras up all over your apartment all _around_ your apartment and all over this hospital. And there's the security system which was just installed. If he's really been watching you, he's got to know that coming after you in any of those areas is a bad idea."

"Yeah. What about all the areas in between?" House pointed out dubiously.

"You won't be alone, House. And Wilson has the gun. If Tritter tries anything, you'll still be protected," Cuddy reminded him. "And you've got the emergency phone. If something does happen, you've got me, Wilson, Jenna, and 9-1-1 on speed dial. You'll be fine."

"I should have just stayed home," House insisted, his voice sullen and angry, his eyes focused on the desk in front of him. "At least then I wouldn't be on the verge of panic over a little thing like going to work"

"You'd be on the verge of panic over some _other_ little thing," Cuddy countered.

House looked up at her, surprised by her blunt words, but unable to deny the truth of them.

"Don't forget why you decided to do this, House," Cuddy went on gently. "Sitting at home scared has got to be worse than being scared here. At least here, you have things to occupy your time, keep your own thoughts from driving you out of your mind. You're not letting him win, House. You're not letting him continue to control you."

"No," House conceded, meeting her eyes. "I'm just giving him a reason to kill me."

Cuddy was quiet for a moment, considering. When she spoke again, her tone was flippant, but her eyes were warm, taking the sting out of her utterly inappropriate, teasing words.

"Well, if that's the case, it's too late now. He can't kill you any _more_ if you come back tomorrow."

House glared at her, though in spite of the serious nature of the conversation, he found that he couldn't quite suppress a slight smile. The comment just sounded so much like something he might have said, to someone else in his position.

"Hey, guys. Ready to go?"

Wilson appeared in the doorway, an affectionate smile appearing on his face when he took in the close intimacy of the scene, Cuddy and House seated mere inches from each other, his hands still clasped comfortably in hers.

House nodded then looked at Cuddy in surprise, when she nodded, too.

"I'm coming with you guys," she explained with a shrug. "Safety in numbers and all that."

As they made their way to the car, House was tense and quiet, despite the efforts of both Cuddy and Wilson to draw him into conversation. They tried to distract him from his fears, but he seemed to view their voices as nothing more than irritating noise, masking the possible sounds of danger around them. He kept looking over his shoulder, jumping at the slightest sound, until they finally reached the safety of the car.

"See?" Wilson said as he got into the driver's seat, noting with a pang of sympathy the way House rushed to lock his door the moment it was closed behind him. "Nothing happened. We're fine."

But even as he spoke, he discreetly shifted his hand off the handle of the gun, where it had been poised and ready throughout the entire walk to the car.

"So come on," Cuddy said as Wilson started the car and pulled onto the road, giving House's shoulder a gently teasing push. "Admit it. You had _so_ much fun today."

"Yeah," House sneered. "Being gawked at by a bunch of pathetic idiots who were too concerned with _my_ issues to do their jobs. It was a blast."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed, her tone hardening as she demanded, "Which idiots? What'd they do?"

House rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh as he admitted, "Nothing, really. They were actually okay, I guess. I mean it was awkward, of course. But I guess they really were all right about it."

He was quiet for a moment, as Cuddy relaxed in the back seat, reassured by his explanation. Finally, he went on in a reluctant, almost sullen voice, barely audible over the car's engine.

"And the case. Diagnosing that patient." He cleared his throat, loathe to admit that she was right, but having no choice. "Didn't suck."

"Yes!" Wilson exulted, pumping his fist in a gesture of victory, laughing when House gave him a slightly suspicious look. "So you're coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure," House sighed, conceding defeat as he looked out the window. "Provided I'm still _alive_ tomorrow."


	35. Chapter 35

When Wilson parked the car outside their apartment, House visibly tensed in the passenger's seat, staring out the window with dread, making no move to open the door

When Wilson parked the car outside their apartment, House visibly tensed in the passenger's seat, staring out the window with dread, making no move to open the door. Wilson frowned with concern, but said nothing as he opened his own door and got out, hand once more ready on the handle of the pistol.

Cuddy got out of the car and opened the door that House couldn't seem to bring himself to touch. "Come on," she urged him gently.

She leaned down and put an arm under his arms, helping him get out of the car. He was gradually recovering, but still in quite a bit of pain from the assault. He allowed her to support part of his weight, gripping the door of the car as he pulled himself to his feet. He slowly straightened, glancing anxiously around the parking lot as Cuddy carefully released her grip on him, once she was sure his footing was steady.

He looked up, startled to see Wilson at his other side. "I'll unlock the door," he said, waiting until House met his eyes to add in a low, pointed voice, "_Take your time_."

The unspoken message in his eyes was clear. Wilson wanted him to wait until he had made sure the apartment was safe, but he didn't want that to be obvious to anyone who might be watching them. House felt a sense of relief at Wilson's foresight in realizing that any display of extra caution following House's first day at work would only serve to indicate that he had told his friends about Tritter's threats.

Cuddy slipped her arm back under House's shoulders, although he didn't need the assistance, and the two of them proceeded along the sidewalk at a snail's pace, as Wilson swiftly punched in the security code, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

House looked up at the open, empty doorway with dread as he slowly approached it. He only realized that he had been holding his breath when Wilson reappeared a moment later, smiling and encouraging as Cuddy "helped" House inside, then closing the door behind them.

Almost immediately, a sound from the kitchen caught House's attention, and he froze, his heart in his throat, staring at the closed kitchen door. Wilson placed a calming hand on his arm, meeting his eyes and shaking his head slightly as he shut the door, locked it, and reactivated the security system.

Only once the apartment was secure did Wilson speak, his voice quiet and calm. "House, Jenna's here. She's in the kitchen."

House frowned in confusion. "How'd she get in?" he demanded, immediately suspicious.

Wilson's head tilted to the side in mild exasperation at House's reaction. "I gave her a key," he patiently informed his friend. "She can't come here when we're all already here, in case we're being watched. It's better if she shows up when we're all elsewhere – along with, presumably, whoever happens to be watching us."

"That's great… if you remember to warn the assault victim suffering from PTSD!" House snapped, his momentary fear making him irritable. "And if she actually has a _reason_ to be here – and being your booty call doesn't count."

"She does," Wilson insisted in a lowered voice, his expression darkening with irritation, his face flushed with embarrassment at House's words as he glanced self-consciously toward the kitchen, wondering if Jenna had overheard. "She called today, said she'd found some information over the weekend that she wanted to share with us."

House glowered suspiciously in Wilson's direction a moment longer, before his face broke into a bright, false smile that Wilson recognized as a portent of humiliation to come.

"Hi, honey!" he called out cheerfully. "We're home." He waited until Jenna appeared in the kitchen doorway to look toward Wilson and add with false innocence, "Oh, wait. That's _your_ line, isn't it?"

Wilson glared at him as he motioned Jenna forward into the living room, sitting down on the sofa as House made his way grudgingly to the recliner across from it. Cuddy sat down between Wilson and Jenna, apparently hoping to diffuse any further chance House might be expecting to mock them.

"So, what's the big news? What did you find? And did you manage to _not_ sign all of our death warrants in the process of finding it?" House barked the words at Jenna, glaring at her, silently daring her to present something that was actually useful.

The problem was, as the natural high from solving his case that day had worn off, House had become increasingly certain that _he_ was the one guilty of sealing their fates. He was sick and tired of appearing vulnerable and helpless in front of his friends, let alone this virtual stranger – and the only emotion that left in his arsenal at the moment was anger.

"No one suspected a thing," Jenna assured him. "I stayed away from the police station. All I've done is research public records, so far. But I think I've found a couple of possible previous victims of this Tritter guy."

She paused, but no one spoke, all eyes focused on her and waiting for further details. All three of them seemed reluctant to commit to a reaction, waiting to hear more before they decided whether this announcement was good or bad. Jenna cleared her throat, obviously feeling a bit on the spot, but then continued.

"The first is a Ray Amato, who was convicted on drug charges two years ago, but sentenced to probation. The newspaper reports were that Tritter was the arresting officer, and highly involved in the investigation. When the sentence was read, apparently Amato openly taunted Tritter, loudly and obviously enough that he served a day for contempt of court on top of his probation."

Jenna paused, drawing in a deep breath, making eye contact with each of them before adding, "A week after the sentencing, he was involved in a hit and run accident that left him a quadriplegic."

Cuddy drew in a startled gasp.

Wilson nodded grimly. "Sounds like Tritter," he muttered.

House didn't say anything, showed no visible response, just kept quietly watching and waiting for Jenna to go on.

"The other man is Peter Leiberman," she continued. "He was charged with assaulting a police officer. Guess who?"

"Tritter," Cuddy softly replied, though the question was clearly rhetorical.

Jenna nodded, turning her gaze toward Cuddy as she went on. "He was found not guilty, because there wasn't enough evidence to convict. Thing is – Tritter didn't have a mark on him. All he had to go by was his own eyewitness account, and the corroborating account of another officer – but the jury apparently didn't find them believable, and Leiberman was acquitted. When I tried to track him down, I found out that he's in a mental institution. Apparently he suffered some kind of breakdown a few months after the trial, and had to be committed."

"Sounds like Tritter's work," Wilson repeated, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

House glared at him defensively. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Wilson looked up at him in surprise. "Nothing," he insisted. "House… I just meant that…"

"What are you going to do with this oh-so-fascinating information?" House demanded of Jenna, not waiting for the rest of Wilson's explanation.

"Well," Jenna began, phrasing her answer cautiously, not wanting to earn House's veto on her plans. "I was hoping to come up with a reasonable explanation for interviewing them. I'm a college student writing a paper on their particular types of cases, something along those lines. If I can sit down and talk with them, maybe I can get them to tell me what happened, and if they'll admit to what happened, then…" Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged slightly.

"…then maybe you could get them to agree to testify in court," Cuddy finished for her.

"Good luck," House sullenly scoffed. "Go for it. Give it your best shot – but they won't talk."

House's obviously terrible mood made none of them feel like visiting any more than was necessary, so after a few more minutes of discussion, Jenna rose awkwardly to her feet, saying that she was ready to go. House was staring morosely at the coffee table, too lost in his own troubling thoughts to notice the slight nod she gave Wilson, silently asking him to accompany her through the kitchen to the back door.

Wilson followed her all the way to the back door, glancing anxiously back toward the rest of the house as Jenna motioned him in closer in a secretive manner. He leaned in close, too troubled by the solemn, apprehensive expression in her eyes to notice, as he usually did, how pretty they were, or how near they were now standing to each other.

Jenna's voice was hushed, cautious, as she explained in a voice of quiet urgency. "Earlier this afternoon, a little while after I got here – someone tried to get into the house."

Wilson cringed, rolling his eyes skyward and running a hand down over his face before meeting her eyes in dismay. "Shit," he muttered, then added more forcefully in quiet frustration, "_No_!"

"Yes," Jenna apologetically replied. "Whoever it was, they managed to activate the security alarm." Encouraged by Wilson's approving nod, Jenna continued. "They ran off when the alarm went off, and I slipped out the back before the security team arrived. They did a brief sweep of the area, but I don't think they found anything. After they got the alarm turned off and left, I let myself back in."

"Okay…" Wilson's tone was worried, thoughtful, as he considered the ramifications of what she had told him. "Okay… so the alarm system was effective. They left without getting in…"

"There's more."

He froze, taking in her warning eyes, the way she anxiously bit her lip as she prepared to tell him whatever bad news she had left to tell.

"After I came back in the house," Jenna went on, glancing toward the kitchen door as she lowered her voice to a near-whisper, "the phone rang."

Wilson's heart sank at those words, and he barely breathed as he waited in silence for her to continue.

"The caller ID said it was a blocked number. It rang three times, and every time the caller hung up when the answering machine picked up." She drew in a deep breath. "The fourth time – he left a message."

Wilson cringed. "What did he say?"

"Unfortunately, nothing overtly threatening." Jenna shook her head. "But it was clear to anyone who knows anything about the situation that it _was _a threat."

Wilson frowned, sick with worry over what she had just revealed. Suddenly, his eyes widened with alarm. "Shit… I've got to check that message before House does!" he realized, turning his panicked gaze toward Jenna. "That message is the _last_ thing he needs to hear right now!"

"I know," Jenna calmly agreed. "That's why I erased it."

Wilson's shoulders slumped with relief for a moment – before he frowned at her in frustration. "You _erased _it?" he echoed. "What if there was something incriminating on there?"

"I already said there wasn't," Jenna reminded him.

"If we gather other evidence and this goes to trial, it could be," Wilson countered, sounding irritated. "Why would you just erase a threatening phone message from an attacker to his victim?"

"I didn't." Jenna smiled as she took a small, handheld tape recorder from the pocket of her jacket. "Not without recording it first."

Wilson relaxed then with relief, granting her an appreciative smile, though his voice was still tense when he replied. "Let me hear it."

Jenna glanced toward the kitchen door again, turning down the volume on the recorder to barely above the lowest setting. However, in the quiet stillness of the room, both of their heads leaning in close to the device, the cold, calm voice on the tape was clearly audible – and unmistakably Tritter's.

"Hey, House. Just thought I'd call to congratulate you on the job." Tritter paused, and Wilson could clearly detect the subtle mockery in his patient, patronizing voice as he went on. "I must say, though, I was a little surprised you got it. Came by the hospital to congratulate you earlier, but you looked a little busy, so I figured I'd catch you at home later. I hear you've been… fixing up the place. I'd just _love_ to see all the new additions, renovations, whatever. You'll have to show me when I come by later, and I'll let you know what I think." Another pause preceded Tritter's soft, barely veiled promise, "We'll talk later, House. Be expecting me soon."

Wilson was shaking with rage by the time the message ended, his fists clenched at his sides, his furious eyes locked on the innocent device in Jenna's hand. "That… that _bastard_!" he seethed through gritted teeth. "As if he hasn't already done enough to destroy House's life!"

He stopped, looking up toward the kitchen door.

Jenna's eyes were downcast, her lips parted over a hesitant question. "James… I… I know he wants to keep all this private, but… I've got to ask." She looked up at him then with an apologetic grimace and a little shake of her head. "This… _wasn't_ just police brutality… wasn't just a… a beating… was it?"

Wilson didn't answer, his stunned, dismayed eyes focused toward the kitchen door, and Jenna turned to follow his gaze – just in time to see House sink to his knees in the doorway.

Wilson rushed to his side, as the older man began to tremble, shaking his head, eyes wide and unfocused with shock, arms wrapped protectively around himself – heedless of his bad leg folded uncomfortably beneath him.


	36. Chapter 36

Jenna watched, feeling helpless and useless, as Wilson immediately responded to House's breakdown, going down on his knees in front of his shaken friend, who seemed to be in a state of shock

Jenna watched, feeling helpless and useless, as Wilson dropped to his knees in front of his shaken friend. Feeling guilty, she tucked the offending tape recorder into her pocket.

"House… it's all right. You're safe. It's okay…"

House blinked at Wilson through wide, shell-shocked eyes, at first not able to understand his words. His arms were wrapped defensively around his torso, and his skin was pale. A cold sweat shimmered on his face as he shivered and stared blankly up at his friend, Wilson's words finally registering.

"Okay?" House echoed at last. "H-how is this… _okay_? I'm not _safe_. He was here. Today. He was… at the hospital. Oh, _God_…"

As he spoke, his words came faster and faster, his breath dangerously shallow and rapid. Wilson reached out cautiously to grasp House's arms, wanting to ground him, to pull him back from the edge of panic on which he was so precariously balanced.

"House… you need to calm down," he warned him gently. "Take a deep breath… listen to me…"

"_No_! Don't _touch_ me!"

The moment Wilson's hands brushed his skin, House flinched with a cry of terrified protest, knocking his head against the doorjamb in his frantic effort to escape. The pain only intensified his panic, and he huddled in the doorway, eyes tightly closed, shaking his head in denial.

Wilson felt utterly helpless as he stared at his friend, unable to think of the right words or actions to comfort him, to bring him back to reality. He wasn't even sure such words existed at all. Lost in his memories, House was unable to perceive Wilson's touch as anything but threatening at the moment, and nothing he had said so far seemed to have helped.

After the encouraging progress over the weekend, when House had finally allowed Wilson to hold him and comfort him, it felt like a terrible loss.

Cuddy emerged from the bathroom – then froze in the doorway. A moment later she went into action, moving swiftly toward them and crouching at House's side.

"What happened?" She turned her bewildered gaze toward Wilson.

He shook his head, disgusted with himself for playing a part in this disaster. "Tritter left a message on the answering machine. House… House heard it…"

House was huddled, shaking, in the doorway, head lowered against his chest, curled in on himself as if trying to hide. For such a tall man, he looked terribly small and vulnerable. It was not how any of them were accustomed to seeing him – and it was deeply disturbing.

"House," Cuddy attempted, keeping her voice quiet and calm as she edged closer to him, without actually touching him. "House… hey… it's all right…"

He just shook his head, a despairing, tearless sob torn from his throat – and the sound tore at Cuddy's heart, expressing without words his complete conviction that it was _not_ all right – that nothing was ever going to be all right again.

Cautiously, she placed a gentle hand on his left thigh, wincing inwardly when she saw the painful way his right leg was bent under him. She had to get him out of that position, and quickly, or he would regret it later. Flinching slightly at her touch, House didn't pull away from her; and after a moment, he seemed marginally calmer.

Encouraged, she shifted closer on her knees, placing her other hand on his upper arm. Her eyes focused on House, keeping her voice soothing and even, Cuddy spoke softly.

"Could you two please give us a minute?"

Jenna immediately headed for the back door, but paused when she saw Wilson's hesitation. There was a hurt expression on his face as observed the difference in the way House reacted to his attempts at comfort, and Cuddy's, albeit small, success. When Cuddy glanced up at him in impatient expectation, he finally moved, passing Jenna and stalking out the back door, slamming it hard behind him.

Jenna cast an apologetic glance at Cuddy, who was glaring up at the door through which Wilson had just disappeared, before quietly following him.

Wilson was pacing in the backyard, quietly furious. When Jenna stepped outside, he didn't see her at first. He ran a trembling hand through his dark hair, before abruptly slamming both fists angrily against the side of the building.

"_Damn_ it!"

He was quiet a moment, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wall for a moment, his shoulders shaking, and Jenna wasn't sure whether it was with tears or bitter, slightly mad laughter. He finally raised his head and saw her out of the corner of his eye. Turning to face her and leaning back against the wall, shaking his throbbing hands in front of him, he gave her a sad, rueful smile.

"That whole pounding-the-wall-in-frustration thing works much better in theory than in practice."

The weakly self-deprecating humor made Jenna feel comfortable enough to approach him. "He can't help it," she reminded him gently. "It wasn't you he was seeing in there…"

"I know that." He cut her off quietly, frowning. His eyes widened with surprise. "God… you think I'm mad at _him_?" A short bark of laughter accompanied a heavenward roll of his eyes, before he met her gaze again, his own anguished with guilt. "Did you even _see_ how I acted in there? I was – was _useless _with him. I know better than to try to touch him when he's like that, but… but after the last time… I thought…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head in defeat. "I should have known better."

"You care about him." Jenna's voice was reassuring as she closed the remaining distance between them, tentatively reaching out to take his hand. "You just wanted to help. You weren't trying to…"

Wilson cut her off with an emphatic wave of his hand toward the back door, his voice angry and disgusted as he continued. "And what the hell was that… that little temper tantrum on the way out the door? When he's in the middle of a freaking _break down_ on the floor, and I can't hold it together until I get outside, can't hold it together for just _two seconds _longer…"

Squeezing his hand to get his attention, Jenna softly pointed out, "There are times when you really _can't_ hold it together – not even for two seconds longer. Not when you've been holding it together for so long already."

Wilson raised his dark eyes to meet hers gratefully, as he let out a weary sigh, taking a moment to catch his breath, to bring his emotions back under control.

"Tritter's going to make a move. Soon."

Jenna blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden subject change, noting the worry in Wilson's dark eyes. She suppressed an affectionate – and totally inappropriate – smile, realizing that Wilson's self-pity couldn't last more than a few moments in the face of House's more important needs.

As she considered his words, however, her sober expression was suddenly much easier to maintain. "Yes," she agreed. "I think he is. Going back to work… it was… was the right thing. He'd lose his mind just sitting around with nothing to do, but… but I think maybe… maybe it might have been better to wait a while. Just until we can get this guy in jail…"

"That could be a while yet," Wilson ran his hand through his hair again. "And House… he can't just… I'm not sure he could have lasted another day with nothing to do but sit in his apartment and… and remember…"

Abruptly, Wilson broke down, covering his face with his hands, and turned away from her. Jenna was touched by the depth of concern and affection he obviously held for his friend. He had been trying so hard to be strong for House, without any regard for his own emotions regarding the assault, that his emotions were dangerously on edge, not nearly as under control as he had fooled himself into believing they were.

She reached out to him, moving around to face him again, touching his arms in a comforting gesture. After a moment, he lowered his hands, swiping almost angrily at his tears as he struggled to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jenna…"

"Nothing to be sorry for," she assured him. She hesitated, biting her lip uncertainly before continuing. "James… what I asked you… inside…"

"Don't," Wilson quietly advised, giving her a warning look.

Jenna shook her head, dropping her hands from his arms and taking a step back, aware that she was about to cross a line – but somehow, unable to stop. "It's just… none of you are reacting to this like an ordinary assault. I mean… yeah, it's serious and all. He was obviously very badly hurt, but… usually a grown man wouldn't be so traumatized by something like getting beat up."

She held her breath, waiting for the explosion she half-expected to follow her ill-advised pushing. But when Wilson finally spoke, his voice was tired, defeated. He seemed to lack the energy to be angry with her, even if he had wanted to.

"Jenna… you're smart. Draw your own conclusions. But… I can't tell you anything else. He asked me not to, and it's his business." He sighed, turning away slightly as he added under his breath, "And I've been enough of a failure as a friend tonight."

"You haven't…"

Wilson stopped her with a halting hand, shaking his head. "Don't. There's no time for this right now. House… House needs us to come up with some decent way of protecting him."

"The alarm system worked…"

"Yes, but if Tritter knows it's there… and about the cameras, apparently… We really have no way of knowing how much he knows about the security measures we've taken, but it's probably safe to say he knows _all_ of it." Wilson's tone was pensive, thoughtful, his gaze focused on a point past Jenna as he considered their situation. "If he knows the security system is there – then it's only a matter of time before he figures out a way to disable it. It's probably easy for him. We really don't know for sure what kind of connections he has…"

"Not to mention the fact that any time House is en route between work and here, or Dr. Cuddy's apartment, or _anywhere_… he's _not_ really secure," Jenna pointed out. "Defying Tritter's orders was a big, important step for House – but it means _Tritter's_ going to be stepping up his game, too. Passive defense isn't going to be enough anymore." Jenna paused for emphasis, holding Wilson's gaze. "We need to plan an _offense._"

Wilson's brow was creased in a frown, intrigued.

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Come on… let's get you up off that leg."

Cuddy carefully placed House's arm across her shoulders, then struggled to her feet, pulling him up with her. His eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped, utterly subdued and defeated – but at least he was calm now. Cuddy helped him to the couch, keeping her arms tight around him, even when they were seated. Finally, he looked up at her, his eyes haunted and fearful.

"Do you think… do you think he really was at the hospital today?"

His voice was hushed, quietly desperate, as he searched her eyes for reassurance – and that fact alone was deeply unsettling to Cuddy. It wasn't like House to seek meaningless comfort in place of a truth too difficult to handle – but now that appeared to be the case.

At any rate, she didn't have the heart to deny it to him.

"He was probably lying, House," she assured him. "He didn't have to actually go there, in order to say it and freak you out. If he'd been there, he probably would have made sure you saw him."

As she spoke, she was relieved that her words actually made sense – because if her reasoning had been faulty, despite his desperation, House wouldn't have bought it.

"He… he was here, though." House's voice lowered to a whisper. "He tried to get in." He paused a moment, before continuing with quiet certainty.

"He'll try again – only next time, he'll succeed."

"House… he can't get past the…"

"He can get past whatever he wants to get past, Cuddy," he cut her off abruptly, looking up again to meet her eyes. "Fooling myself sounds like a lot of fun right now, but it won't do any of us a damn bit of good. He's going to try again, and he's going to be armed, and our security measures won't mean a thing when he does. Denying that is useless and idiotic."

Cuddy watched him closely as he spoke, encouraged despite his grim words by the strength she heard returning in his tone. As she had suspected, House was unable to allow himself to take comfort in lies. When he spoke again, she felt a rush of pride and affection for him, at the fierce, determined spark she saw in his eyes.

"We need a new plan."


	37. Chapter 37

As Wilson got out of his car in the parking lot of the tiny, out-of-the-way diner where he had arranged to meet Jenna, he felt a sense of satisfaction and relief when he noticed that besides Jenna's old, red Geo Metro, there were few other cars parked ou

As Wilson got out of his car in the parking lot of the tiny, out-of-the-way diner where he had arranged to meet Jenna, he felt a sense of satisfaction and relief to see that besides Jenna's old, red Geo Metro, there were few other cars parked outside.

_Good… We should have some privacy…_

When he walked inside, he saw her immediately. The dining room was small, and she was seated at a corner booth facing the door. She waved to catch his attention, apparently unaware that she already had it – in more ways than one.

As he slid into the seat across from her, Wilson gave her a nervous smile, glancing quickly over his shoulder before looking back at her and nodding his approval.

"Good choice."

Pleased with his approval, Jenna smiled. "They wouldn't follow us in here. It'd be too obvious."

Wilson nodded again, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, biting his lip in a nervous gesture as he opened his mouth to speak.

When he hesitated, Jenna spoke first.

"How's House?"

Wilson considered for a moment. "Jumpy. Scared. The usual – but in triplicate, today."

Jenna sighed. "Understandable."

"He's working in the clinic today, having lunch in the cafeteria with Cuddy right now. Nice and public. Safer." Wilson was quiet a moment, before adding in a hesitant, apologetic tone. "I'm… not sure we should do this. If he's too scared. I mean… this whole thing hinges on him, and whether or not he can hold it together…"

"Well…" Jenna considered, a reluctant grimace on her lips, "…if he doesn't want to do it, we shouldn't push him. Has he _said_ he doesn't want to do it?"

"He'd be crazy to _want_ to do this," Wilson reminded her. "There are no good options here. And I think he knows that this is… probably our best shot. He's scared, yeah… terrified, even. But if you're asking if he's changed his mind… if he's gonna back out?" He shook his head. "No. He won't. He'll go through with it."

Jenna nodded, and they exchanged a grim look of resignation.

"I met with those other two men – the potential victims?"

Wilson nodded expectantly.

"Make that confirmed, definite victims."

Jenna's eyes were troubled, tinged with horror. Wilson recognized that look. He had seen it in the mirror immediately after House had been attacked. Instinctively, he reached across the table and took her hand, offering her his comfort and understanding. She turned her hand to clasp his in return, allowing him to comfort her in a way that House had been unable to do. She swallowed hard before going on.

"The first one, Lieberman, the mental patient… I got in to see him by claiming to be family, and… I guess he doesn't get a lot of visitors." Jenna shrugged sadly, staring down at the table as she went on. "He couldn't tell me much. Not surprisingly. He… didn't make much sense at all. I asked about what happened, how he got here, and… it was mostly rambling, incoherent nonsense, but… but he was scared to talk. I mentioned Tritter's name, and he panicked. Ended up… cowering in a corner, shaking his head, rocking back and forth…"

Wilson winced, trying hard not to think of the similarities between her description and the behavior he had seen from House in the past couple of weeks.

_We won't let it get that far… We'll stop Tritter before he can crush House that completely…_

… _but what if he already has?_

"I think for a little while there, he… thought I _was_ Tritter," Jenna continued, a haunted sound to her voice. "He kept… saying he was sorry… begging me not to hurt him… not to… to make him…" Her words trailed off, and she shook her head, drawing in a deep, shaky breath as she struggled to control her voice. "He said… 'I didn't tell. I never told. I hadn't told the last time you asked me, and I still haven't told anyone'…"

"So…" Wilson frowned thoughtfully, considering her disturbing story. "…presumably, whatever Tritter did to this guy… he did it more than once."

Jenna nodded. "Like I said, it was hard to make sense of what he said, but… it sounded like he'd had several… encounters, with Tritter. The nurses mentioned a… a cousin, who visits him once every few months, though they wouldn't disclose his name. I think… I think it's Tritter, visiting him, even since he was committed."

"That's… disturbing." Wilson's frown deepened, a sick sensation building in the pit of his stomach.

"Yeah." Jenna agreed with a grim nod. "Which is why it's a good thing that we're doing something to stop Tritter _now_, before he can take things that far with House." She squeezed Wilson's hand gently, drawing his attention as she reassured him. "The nurses at the psychiatric center told me that Lieberman didn't have any friends. That's why he rarely has any visitors. It's not like that for House. He has us… and Dr. Cuddy. He has help… _support_."

Although he wasn't really convinced, Wilson nodded.

"The second visit was a little more promising." Jenna hurried to change the subject, which had obviously only served to increase Wilson's fears. "Ray Amato – the one who was convicted of drug charges, but given probation."

"The quadriplegic."

Jenna nodded. "Apparently, Tritter's involvement with him was a little less… hands on." Jenna bit her lip with an apologetic shrug when Wilson winced at her unfortunate choice of words. "He was actually willing to talk with me. He said at the time of the hit-and-run, he knew Tritter was behind it, tried to get him charged, but there was no evidence to link Tritter to the accident."

"It was no accident," Wilson muttered.

"No, it wasn't," Jenna agreed. "Amato says he was able to convince a friend of his – a detective on the Princeton police force – to help him investigate. He said this detective – a Marcus Benson – said he knew Tritter had shady dealings, but he was too good, never left evidence… always got away with it. Apparently Benson tried to help Amato investigate, but it never went anywhere."

Wilson frowned. "A police detective, friends with a drug dealer?"

"Amato claims he's innocent," Jenna explained. "Tritter made a routine traffic stop on him a few months before the drug charges, and apparently didn't care for his attitude. Amato says the charges were all false."

"Just like House." Wilson nodded sadly. "Except House didn't have a friend on the police force to help him get out of it with minimal damage."

"Exactly," Jenna confirmed. "Benson put in a good word for him, helped him get off with probation – and probably got him paralyzed in the process."

"Wow. Amato doesn't sound like… like Tritter's other victims," Wilson observed thoughtfully. "I know this Benson is his friend, but he actually went to the police about it… that's something…"

Jenna nodded. "He talked to Benson as soon as he got out of the hospital. When I mentioned that there'd been other victims who weren't willing to come forward, he said he _did_ get a few threatening phone calls. A couple of times he thought someone was following him… but no one ever attacked him, nothing like that. He thinks it's because he got Benson involved. Tritter was afraid to do anything that might get linked back to him."

A grim, angry smile crossed Wilson's face as he met her eyes. "Tritter was counting on the fact that House didn't have any such influential friends."

Jenna nodded. "But Amato says that if we can get some kind of solid evidence against Tritter, and if House is willing to come forward, he'll testify in court about his own experiences with Tritter, to establish Tritter's history of similar behavior. And if House wants him to, he'll get Benson involved. That should give him a measure of protection he doesn't already have."

Wilson nodded slowly, excitement slowly building in his eyes as he took in her words. "This is good, Jenna," he observed with a cautious smile. "This could be exactly what we've been looking for."

Jenna returned his smile, relieved by his reaction. "I think it is."

Wilson's smile faded slightly as he reminded her, "We'll have to check with House, of course. He may not be willing to take such a big, scary step."

"He's taking a pretty huge step already," Jenna pointed out. "If this works, we'll have evidence."

Wilson nodded.

"We'll ask him tomorrow. If that's what he wants, then that's what we'll do."

"I don't want to do this, Wilson."

House's voice was shaky, uncertain, and he reached out to grasp Wilson's arm in an uncharacteristic need for reassurance. Despite the pang of guilt and sympathy he felt, Wilson forced himself to meet his friend's eyes in a reassuring expression.

"You're going to be fine, House. I promise. You're not going to be in any danger, not for a moment."

"I know, but… I… I'm not sure…"

"House… it's just for a couple of hours," Wilson reminded him gently. "I have to work late. I can't help it. I'll be home in a couple of hours."

"I can wait here…"

"House." Wilson's voice softened just slightly, but was still audible to anyone who might have been within earshot. "We've been talking about this. Haven't we?"

House nodded reluctantly, eyes downcast. "I know."

"You can't spend the rest of your life afraid to go anywhere unless someone is with you. You have to somehow get to a point where you're all right on your own."

"I… I don't want to be alone," House finally admitted, subdued, fearful.

"I know." Wilson's tone was kind, sympathetic, as he gently removed House's hand from his arm. "That's the problem." When House voiced no further objection, Wilson continued, "The cab will be here in ten minutes. You can wait in Cuddy's office until it gets here. Ask the driver to watch to be sure you get in all right. No one will try anything as long as they know someone's watching. All right? You'll be perfectly safe – I promise."

"_Please_, Wilson…" House's voice rose slightly with panic as Wilson started back inside.

"House." Wilson's voice was sharp, firm, as he stopped, but did not turn around. "It's not up for discussion. I have work to do."

"This it?" The cab driver asked as he slowed to a stop in front of House's apartment.

House swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his palms damp as he shifted his backpack on his shoulder and opened the door of the cab.

"Yeah," he agreed with a nod.

He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but then seemed to think better of it, and simply paid the man and got out without another word. The cab driver sped off into the night, and House made his way on shaking legs up the sidewalk toward his apartment. It was already dark, and he forced himself not to give in to his own fears by glancing over his shoulder as he approached the door, key already in hand.

_Perfectly safe… just a little while alone… nothing will happen… perfectly safe…_

Wilson's words echoed in his mind as he entered the security code to momentarily disable the alarm.

They were still echoing when he felt a hand slide around his waist from behind, pressing him forward against the door, while another strong hand locked around his throat, pulling him back against the warm, oppressive bulk of a body with which he was sickeningly familiar.

"Nice of you not to ask the cabbie to wait," Tritter murmured into his ear, sending a shudder through House as he struggled to control the panicked racing of his heart. "You should have listened to your good buddy Wilson on that one. Except… he's not such a good buddy, after all, is he?" Tritter sneered. "Or you wouldn't be in this position right now."

Frozen with terror, not daring to resist, or even move, all House could think to do was to whisper, almost inaudibly, "_Please… please, don't_…"

"Shut up."

Tritter's hand clenched around his neck, and House flinched, biting his lip to hold back the keening cry that rose in his throat. Tritter shifted in closer behind him, and House's entire body tensed, but he didn't fight, as the bigger, stronger man slid his arm backward along House's stomach, dropping it to close gently around the hand that held the keys and guide it toward the door.

"Go ahead and unlock it," he ordered softly. "Let's get inside, where we can have a little privacy. We've got a lot to talk about."


	38. Chapter 38

Disobedience never crossed House's mind, as he placed the key in the lock with a trembling hand, allowing the door to fall open… and allowing his tormentor access to the place that had become his sanctuary

Disobedience never crossed House's mind, as he placed the key in the lock with a trembling hand, allowing the door to fall open… and allowing his tormentor access to the place that had become his sanctuary.

Tritter removed his hand from House's throat, trailing it down to his arm in a firm but not painful grip, steering House ahead of him into the apartment and closing the door, then turning him around to face it. Tritter reached around House to lock the door, then leaned in to speak in a soft voice of command, so close that his lips brushed House's ear.

"Reset the security system." Tritter caught his wrist a moment before House would have touched the control box, smiling as he added softly, "And if you hit a single wrong key, House – if you do anything stupid to try to get help – you'll be dead long before they get here. Right?"

House hurriedly nodded, staring blankly at the control box in front of him, his panicked mind racing to remember the right code. Terror made him certain that he was wrong, he had forgotten a digit, had taken too long, was going to accidentally incur Tritter's wrath by failing in the simple task required of him.

When the light on the control box switched to green, indicating that the security system had been successfully reactivated, House let out a deep, shaky breath, a shudder of relief passing through him. Relief was swiftly replaced by dread, however, as Tritter maneuvered him away from the door and toward the wall across the room, turning him so that his back was to the wall, and he was facing Tritter.

Tritter held his arm with one hand, holding him in place against the wall. He shook him slightly, snapping his fingers in his face as he ordered quietly, "Look at me, House. Eyes on me."

House immediately obeyed, though it was a struggle to meet the eyes of the man who had so thoroughly broken him. He was shaking violently, and the cold smile on Tritter's face only intensified the dread that shook him. Tritter's free hand came to rest on House's hip, trailing slowly up under his shirt to stroke slowly across his stomach. House flinched, shaking his head pleadingly as his gaze dropped in shame – and Tritter's smile widened with cruel satisfaction.

"Please," House whispered, holding up his trembling hands in a gesture of submission. "Please, please don't…"

"Shut up."

Tritter's gentle voice belied the harsh command, as his invasive hand trailed slowly around behind House, cruel fingers tracing along the top of House's jeans in a subtle suggestion of the brutality he had already committed against him. Tritter shifted closer to House, his left hand tightening on his arm, pinning him against the wall, while his left continued its gentle violation.

"You're gonna stand right here…" Tritter continued in that same soft, terrifying voice. "… and you're not gonna move… and you're not gonna make a sound… until I come back. Isn't that right, House?"

House nodded rapidly, swallowing back a sob of relief as Tritter finally removed his hand from under House's shirt, drawing back to give his captive a little bit of space. House flinched when Tritter reached toward him again, only to take his cell phone from his pocket. Then, Tritter reached down and took House's cane from his hand.

House hadn't even remembered he was still holding it, but its sudden absence made him feel naked and vulnerable – utterly defenseless.

Tritter smiled as he tucked the cell phone into his own pocket, then held the cane in both hands to examine it more closely.

"Nice," he remarked approvingly. "Brand new." He shrugged, meeting House's eyes again with a vicious smirk. "I liked the other one. It had… character."

House cringed, once again dropping his gaze in humiliation as Tritter walked away from him, making his way through the apartment and making sure all the shades were drawn, all the rooms empty. When he came to Wilson's bedroom door, he tried the handle, then frowned when he found it locked.

"What's in here?" he demanded.

House glanced up nervously, then down again, struggling to speak. "W-Wilson's room."

"Why's it locked?"

"He… he always keeps it locked when he's not here," House explained in a quiet, subdued voice. "Because of… of…"

Tritter smiled as he stalked toward House, swiftly invading his space again, one hand braced on the wall beside House's head, his face inches from House's.

"Because of the gun?" he suggested softly.

House looked up at him, alarmed.

"Please, House. You think there's anything goes on in this apartment I don't already know about? You think you've got any secrets from me?"

House shook his head, not only because he knew it was the answer Tritter wanted.

He was starting to believe it was the truth.

"No, I know everything you've been up to lately, House. Going back to work, against my explicit orders… setting up this whole tricked out security system… the gun… the PI…"

House looked up at him quickly, a trapped expression in his eyes. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "There's no PI…"

Without hesitation, Tritter delivered a sharp slap across House's face, hard enough to knock his head into the wall and make him see stars. While House recovered from the blow, Tritter calmly grasped his wrists and guided them upward, crossing them over his stomach and pinning them there with one huge, meaty hand.

Finding himself suddenly restrained, House fought off panic, struggling to control the terror that threatened to swallow up all logic and reason – because he knew that he might very well need those things in order to survive this encounter. Instinct told him to struggle, to fight for his freedom – but he knew better, and forced himself to stay still and pliant in Tritter's grasp.

Tritter's voice softened, deceptively gentle as he leaned in closer and added in a slow, thoughtful voice, "I'll bet… you've even let the truth about what happened that night… slip, a time or two, haven't you, House? You've told Cuddy? Wilson? Maybe even that cute little PI he's been seeing so much of?"

The struggle to submit became even more difficult when Tritter began once again trailing his free hand over House's body in slow, almost seductive caresses, designed to humiliate and terrorize his helpless victim. House flinched as Tritter's fingers slid under the waistband of his jeans, just barely brushing the line of his hip, but he dared not pull away.

"Please…" House could not suppress a pleading whimper at the sickeningly intimate touch, shaking his head desperately. "Please, I didn't tell anyone… please…"

"Liar." Tritter's accusation was dangerously gentle.

"No, I'm not lying, please," House insisted, alarmingly close to tears. "They only know what happened. They don't know it was you. Please, I swear it…"

Tritter's hand suddenly locked around House's throat, choking off the rest of his desperate explanation. The stronger man's thumb dug mercilessly into House's windpipe, not letting up until the edges of his vision became blurry and dark, and he felt his body beginning to go slack under Tritter's restraining hand.

Tritter finally released his grip on his throat, and House gasped and coughed as he struggled to regain his breath. Tritter didn't give him time to recover before grabbing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head painfully backward, forcing House to meet his eyes. There was a dangerous note of malicious pleasure in Tritter's eyes as he smiled coldly.

"If you're lying… they're all dead. You know that… don't you?"

House nodded as best he could, still gulping down deep draughts of air in an effort to recover from the savage choking.

"The girls… both of them, so beautiful… _and_ Wilson… he's not too hard to look at, either…" Tritter mused, a teasing smile on his face. Abruptly the smile twisted into something dark and ugly and menacing, as he snarled, "I'll tear them apart. I'll do to them exactly what I did to you… and I'll make you watch. They'll know it's your fault it's happening to them, too. With their last breaths, they'll curse you, House – because they'll know that you're the _idiot_ who cost them their lives… all because you couldn't keep your stupid mouth shut."

"Please, don't…"

"Shut up!" Tritter hissed, deliberately smacking House's head hard against the wall.

Instantly, his voice softened again, as he continued. "Oh, yeah. About Wilson." He let out a derisive huff of laughter. "Your defender. So intent on protecting you, making sure nothing – well, nothing like _this_ happens to you again…"

House was already shaking his head, desperate not to hear what Tritter was going to say next, though he dared not voice his protest again.

"... He needs to learn not to be so protective of something that's not even his. You're _mine_, House – aren't you? My worthless, pathetic little _bitch_."

House nodded obediently. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes… Please, don't…"

"He needs to stop trying to keep me away from you. Taking your late night phone calls for you – walking around like Mr. High-and-Mighty with that gun… as if it'd do either of you any good if I decided to take you off the street any time I damn well feel like it…"

The subtly possessive anger in Tritter's voice sent a chill through House, and he shook his head emphatically. "No… I know," he whispered. "I know…"

"He keeps it up much longer, you know what I'm gonna do to him, House?"

House shook his head, fighting back helpless tears. "No… _please_, no…"

"I'll take him out to that cabin in the woods… get a few of my boys together… and we'll have us a little trip down memory lane, House. Do all the thing we did to you. Only… I bet I could think of a few ways to make it last longer. We only _began_ to explore all the things we _could_ have done to you that night…"

"_No_…" House's voice was a pitiful sob, the tears he had been fighting to hold back streaking his face as he lowered his head, his shoulders shaking. "Please… please, don't hurt him… please…"

"Funny, though…"

Tritter was quiet for a moment, and House detected a sudden shift in his tone. Dreading what he might see, House hesitantly raised his eyes to meet Tritter's pensive, knowing smile. When he finally spoke again, House's stomach lurched at the dangerous implications of his words.

"… funny, how _un_-protective Wilson was just a little while ago."

"I… I can't just… k-keep depending on him for everything," House insisted, aware that his words were coming out too rushed, his unintentional stutter revealing his panic. "That's all. He was trying to do what's b-best for me, that's all…"

"Right." Tritter nodded slowly, pausing a moment. "Had nothing at all to do with giving me an opportunity to get to you. An opportunity… to incriminate myself in front of your secret cameras. Did it, House?"

House's eyes were stunned, trapped. He had no answer for the soft accusation.

Tritter moved in closer to House with a secretive smile. Abruptly, the smile faded into fury, and he raised his knee to slam it viciously into House's thigh. House couldn't hold back a cry of agony, and would have collapsed had Tritter not been holding him up. House flinched away from Tritter's hot breath, his oppressive nearness, as the detective ran a falsely soothing hand through House's hair.

"You think your cameras are running right now, House?" he asked softly. "You think I didn't think to make sure they were all disconnected before you ever showed up? Or maybe you think I didn't even know they were there." Tritter shook him hard, slamming him into the wall, and House bit back a cry of pain at the impact to his still-recovering injuries. "You think I'm _stupid_, House?"

House shook his head frantically, beyond words at this point, violently shaking as he cringed away from Tritter's obvious rage.

"Let me give you a little tip, House," Tritter sneered, lowering his voice again. "Next time you want to try to trap me into confessing how me and my boys dragged you to my cabin… beat you… tortured you…"

Tritter's voice grew even softer, brutal in the gentle intimacy of his tone, in contrast with the savagery of his slow, careful words. He seemed to be taking great care not to leave anything out, taunting House with the uselessness of his confession, while deliberately making it as degrading as possible for him, forcing him to relive the details of what had been done to him.

"… how we raped you… again and again… how I took my knife… and stuck it up your filthy… whoring… ass… how I fucked you with your own cane… and then… made you watch while I killed my friend and coconspirator of the last ten years… Johnny Rhodes. That's R-H-O-D-E-S, for anyone who might have missed it."

Tritter smiled as he stroked his fingertips lightly down House's cheek, and his devastated captive flinched violently away from his touch. Tritter's voice was barely over a whisper as he sneered softly into House's ear.

"Too bad the cameras weren't on… isn't it, House?"

"Please," House sobbed. "Please, I'm sorry… I'm sorry, please, don't… don't…"

Tritter's strong hand finally released House's hands, which immediately rose in front of him in a pleading gesture. House didn't dare resist as both Tritter's hands slid slowly up under his shirt, then shifted downward to brush possessively along the curve of his ass. Tritter abruptly jerked him forward, off balance, meeting House's eyes with a mockery of compassion in his own.

"Shhh," he soothed him with chilling gentleness. "It's all right, House. You can still make it right. I can think of a really good way that you can… make it up to me."

It took House a moment to register what Tritter was talking about – but when he did, he felt as if he would vomit at the suggestion. His head spun, unable to fathom the idea of being forced to allow this monster to touch him again – not like that.

_Please, _please, _not like that…_

He shook his head slowly, desperately. "Please…"

"Get on your knees, House."

He hesitated, shaking, as Tritter removed his hands and took a slow, deliberate step backward to give him room.

"M-my… my leg…" House stammered, stalling. "I… I need my… my pills…"

"What you _need_," Tritter countered in a voice of silken steel, "is to do as you're told."

Tritter picked up the cane he had propped against the wall, deft fingers tracing along its smooth contours as he met House's eyes with a sadistic gleam in his own.

"Or, if you'd rather… we could break in this new cane of yours."

House's stomach clenched, his legs suddenly weak with terror at the idea. He dropped to his knees instantly, biting back a wince of pain at the impact to his right leg. Tritter nodded and smiled his satisfaction as he drew close again. His strong hand cupped the back of House's head, pushing at the back of his neck, to tilt his head upward. House stared up at him through eyes that were shell-shocked, terrified… but submissive.

Which was exactly what Tritter wanted.

He stepped back again, dropping to a crouch in front of House so that he was at eye level with him.

"Good boy," he said softly, an approving smile on his lips. "Just wanted you to remember. Any time I want. You're mine, House. Always will be."

"Y-yes, Sir," House whispered almost automatically, eyes downcast.

"Now." Tritter's hand clenched in House's hair in a painful warning, jerking his head up slightly as he spoke in a cool, even voice. "You're not going to tell anyone about this. You're going to wait until Wilson gets home. And then, you're going to tell him you want to drop the investigation. Fire your little PI. No matter what he asks you… or what Cuddy asks you… about what happened… you're gonna keep your stupid mouth shut, aren't you, House?"

He nodded, the motion painfully aided by Tritter's fist in his hair.

"And…" Tritter released his grip on House's hair, only to backhand him hard enough to knock him off his knees, onto his face on the floor. "… that's for taking your job back. You're going to quit it again, tomorrow."

Tritter stood up straight, towering over House, doubled over on the floor in pain. He nudged House's thigh with his boot, not hard enough to hurt, but just hard enough to make him cringe in dread of the pain he knew that boot could cause, if Tritter wanted it to.

"This is what my mercy looks like, House." Tritter's voice was deadly serious as he glared down at him. "You won't see it again. Is that clear?"

House nodded, not raising his head, his body curled over his folded legs, huddled in a position that was equal parts submissive and defensive. He didn't move, didn't look up, as Tritter's heavy footsteps slowly receded, and the door closed quietly behind him. Strangely, House was not relieved by the man's absence; instead, he curled tighter into himself, his shoulders shaking, taut, trembling arms wrapped around his knees.

Behind him, Wilson's locked bedroom door slid slowly open, and two sets of soft footsteps approached him. When one of the two figures crouched carefully in front of him, House was both aware of and untroubled by his presence, despite the humiliation of the events he had just endured.

"House… it's all right… it's over… it's over, now…"

Wilson's voice was soft, reassuring as he reached out a hesitant hand, finally laying it tentatively on House's shaking knee. He was about to withdraw it, certain that his touch was doing more damage than good, when he felt House's hand abruptly grasp his, clinging to it like a lifeline, his grip desperately, painfully tight.

Wilson didn't mind for a moment.

Relieved, Wilson placed his other hand on House's shoulder, pushing gently in an effort to get him to sit up. "House… look at me, House. It's all right. He's gone, now…"

Finally, House raised tear-filled eyes to meet Wilson's. He was still choking back sobs as he struggled to regain his composure. House was yet beyond words, but his free hand went listlessly to the top button of his shirt, pulling it out from his body to look down at it. Wilson's hand followed House's, taking hold of the button, and he gently disentangled his other hand in order to carefully unfasten the tiny item from House's shirt.

"He was right about one thing. When you're trying to trap a dirty cop into a confession…" Wilson mused softly as he placed the button that was not a button carefully in Jenna's hand. "…be sure you've got at least _one _working camera…"


	39. Chapter 39

"That… that bastard

"That… that _bastard_!"

Wilson's voice was a low hiss, barely audible even in the stillness of the room where he and Jenna waited. He knew the importance of keeping their presence a secret, knew that the whole plan would fall apart – not to mention the possibility of all of them getting killed – if Tritter found out he and Jenna were there.

But through the thin walls that separated Wilson's room from the rest of the apartment, every word of the conversation between House and Tritter was audible – and when Tritter started talking about House's new cane, deliberately tormenting him with the memory of what Tritter had done with the old one – it was nearly more than Wilson could take.

Jenna put a gently restraining hand on his arm, silently shushing him with a warning shake of her head.

"If he touches him," Wilson whispered. "If he touches him again, Jenna, I… I can't just…"

"You _have_ to," Jenna cut him off, her words barely a breath. "James, if you blow this now… House is going through this for nothing."

Suddenly, the doorknob rattled as Tritter shook it, and both of them jumped, wide, terrified eyes locking onto the door. They barely dared to breathe, until House managed to draw Tritter's attention away from the door. Wilson couldn't help but feel a sense of pride for his friend as, in spite of his terror, he skillfully guided the conversation away from whatever might lie beyond Wilson's bedroom door.

House followed the plan perfectly, doing his best to protect Jenna and his friends, leading Tritter to believe that they knew nothing about his part in House's assault, and Wilson began to relax a little, thinking that everything would work out as planned. However, when he heard the harsh, resounding slap from the next room, Wilson nearly ruined everything himself.

He took a furious step toward the door, fists clenched at his sides, shaking with rage as Jenna caught his arm, jerking him back. She met his eyes in warning, shaking her head slowly and emphatically.

"_No_."

"I can't just… just let him _hurt_ him like that!" Wilson insisted, his whispered words trembling and tormented.

"If he needs help, he'll use the escape word," Jenna reminded him. "He's okay, James. He's okay."

"He's _not_ okay. Tritter _hit_ him…"

"James…" Jenna's expression was sympathetic as she gently took his hand and pulled him back toward the bed. "… did you really think he'd get through this without Tritter _touching_ him?"

Wilson lowered his eyes, swallowing hard, still trembling with repressed rage, but unable to deny the painful but utterly valid point she made.

"He knows what he's doing," she assured him, barely mouthing the words. "If it's too much for him… he'll let us know."

Wilson was barely aware of it through the rage and frustration and tension of listening to House's torment without being able to stop it – but he was grateful for Jenna's presence in the room with him. He knew, had he been alone with no one to remind him of the priorities of the situation, he would certainly have already burst into the living room and run to House's defense, ruining everything in the process.

"_Please… please, don't hurt him…"_

House's choked sob from the next room tore at Wilson's heart.

When he realized that Tritter was using House's concern for him against him – spitting out vicious threats of horrific brutalities against _Wilson_, to keep _House_ under control – Wilson felt furious tears spring to his eyes. When House broke down, crying – out of fear for _him_ – those tears slipped down Wilson's face, and he pressed a fist against his mouth, struggling to suppress the sob that rose in his throat.

"Shhh," Jenna soothed him. "It's all right… it's almost over," she whispered into his ear as she wrapped her arms around him – and Wilson was sure that it was as much to hold him back as it was to comfort him.

Wilson's stomach clenched with fear, however, momentarily distracting him in a terrible way, when Tritter mentioned the cameras. A chill of apprehension swept over him, and he wondered if it was possible that Tritter knew about the camera House was wearing. He had seemed to be one step ahead of them the whole time.

If Tritter had somehow figured out their secret weapon…

Wilson's thoughts were interrupted when he heard Jenna's startled, horrified gasp, and focused once more on Tritter's words – only to wish that he hadn't. That sick feeling of overwhelming rage and disgust consumed him as he listened to Tritter's quietly smug description of the details of the attack, cruelly reminding House of all the ways in which he and his friends had degraded and violated him.

Wilson knew his friend well enough to clearly detect the shame and humiliation in his voice as he murmured quiet, broken pleas and apologies. The sharp hitch of alarm in House's voice, the edge of panic as he pleaded for Tritter to stop, let Wilson know that Tritter was touching him again, deliberately violating him in some particularly traumatic way – and all he wanted was to take his gun and slam the bedroom door open, step out into the living room, and make damn sure that Tritter was never able to do any damage to House again.

"Don't," Jenna whispered. "James… don't… He's already confessed. We're almost done. Don't ruin this now."

Tritter's next words made them both freeze, however, and Jenna's wide eyes turned toward the door in stunned horror.

"_Get on your knees, House."_

"No," Wilson whispered, shaking his head, taking a step toward the door and forcefully shrugging off Jenna's attempt to prevent him. "No… I _won't _let him do this to House…"

"Wait," Jenna whispered, though her eyes were still locked on the door, stricken and sickened by Tritter's demand. "Just wait… If he needs you… he'll say it… Just wait…"

"My leg," House stammered, and Wilson tensed, sensing where his words were headed. "I… I need my… my pills…"

"There it is," Wilson muttered, taking the gun out of his waistband, reaching for the doorknob.

"No!" Jenna hissed. "James, don't!"

"He said it!"

"No, he didn't," she objected in a desperate whisper, voice trembling with apprehension as she caught his arm, tried to pull him back. "He stopped himself…"

"He said he needed his pills."

"He _didn't_ say 'vicodin'."

Wilson shook his head, face crumpling with fresh tears of frustration. "He… he forgot it. He obviously _meant_…"

"He _obviously…_ changed his mind," Jenna corrected gently, raising a hand to his cheek to draw his gaze to hers. "He almost said it, but he changed his mind. Just wait… wait, James, please…"

Wilson heard Tritter threaten to rape House with his new cane, and cringed, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes as he struggled to control the overwhelming need to defend his friend, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"I can't let him do this," he whispered, shaking his head, tears streaming from his eyes. "Jenna, he's terrified. He probably doesn't even remember the word… probably doesn't remember that he has a choice at all. I can't let Tritter do this to him again…"

Wilson reached for the doorknob again, determined to stop Tritter before he could violate House again. But before he could open the door, he heard a shift in Tritter's voice. Amazingly, it sounded as if he was getting ready to leave. Wilson felt sick when he realized that Tritter had forced House to his knees, only to reassert his dominance over him, to prove to House that he _could_ make him submit.

Wilson flinched when Tritter hit House again, shaking with indignant fury when he heard Tritter's hard voice, giving House orders again – ordering him to keep his mouth shut, to fire Jenna and drop the investigation, to quit his job again. He couldn't believe that Tritter would dare to refer to his actions as "mercy", and it made him want to walk out of his bedroom and make Tritter sorry for treating House so viciously.

What he did, instead, was to walk out of his bedroom and go to his devastated, quietly sobbing friend. He dropped to his knees beside House, tentatively reaching out his hand to rest on House's knee.

"House… it's all right. It's over… It's over, now."

Taking in the wreckage that was left in the wake of Tritter's second attack on his friend, Wilson had to wonder if it was worth it.

_Will even putting Tritter away be worth it, if this sets back House's recovery – makes it that much harder for him to get past the fear and trauma?_

Remembering how terrified House often was by any male touch, Wilson was about to withdraw his hand – when House suddenly reached out and grasped it, holding onto Wilson's hand with a desperation that set a sharp ache in Wilson's chest. As tears of mingled pain and affection filled Wilson's eyes, he was only sure of one thing.

He had never known how much courage and strength lay beneath the surface of his damaged, insecure best friend – and he had never been prouder of House than he was in that moment.

Half an hour later, Cuddy arrived.

She was in on the plan, of course, but they knew that if she showed up immediately after Tritter left, it would be obvious to anyone who might be watching them that House had told her what was going to happen. And, at least until they could get their evidence to someone who could help them, they had to keep up the ruse that House was obeying Tritter's demands.

However, a visit to House's and Wilson's apartment after her normal working hours was something that was absolutely ordinary lately.

She walked through the door, scanning the room until her eyes fell on House, sitting on the sofa next to Wilson. Wilson was talking to him quietly, and House was nodding slowly in response to something he'd said. At first glance, House seemed utterly calm. When she looked closer, however, Cuddy realized that he was a little bit _too_ calm. His eyes were a little too large, unfocused, and he was trembling slightly with shock, even now, half an hour after the incident.

He looked up as she entered the room, and Cuddy's heart ached at the sight of the stark terror and confusion in his tearful blue eyes. She crossed the room to his side in an instant, sitting down beside him and reaching out to put her arms around him. He willingly sank into her embrace, his head buried in the crook of her neck as she held him close to her. Her voice was quiet but firm with awed conviction as she whispered in his ear.

"You are _so… incredibly… brave_, House. What you did tonight was _so… amazing_."

She felt a tremor run through his body, but he remained utterly silent. Only when she felt the warm moisture soaking through the shoulder of her blouse did she realize that he was crying. His shaking hands clutched the sides of her blouse, desperately seeking comfort and reassurance in the wake of his renewed trauma, and Cuddy's heart sank with a sense of dread and uncertainty.

_Are we back where we started, now? Have we just made a terrible mistake?_

"Shhh, it's okay," she whispered. "It's all right. You're safe now. And you're about to be safe for good, House. He's never going to be able to touch you again."

A bit awkwardly, Wilson rose to his feet, meeting Cuddy's eyes in an affectionate smile. "I'll… go talk to Jenna."

"She's still here?" Cuddy frowned, puzzled.

Wilson nodded. "She's in the bedroom. She's… a little shaken up, by all of this. I… don't think she knew…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, unwilling to say anymore in front of House, in his fragile state.

Cuddy nodded, dismissing him, and Wilson walked into his bedroom and closed the door, leaving them in privacy. House raised his head, eyes trailing after Wilson, before glancing up at Cuddy uncertainly.

"I… I don't know how I could have… been so… confused. I… I guess I must have… forgotten…"

Cuddy frowned, confused, shaking her head slightly. "Forgotten? About what, House?" Her voice was gentle, quietly concerned.

House nodded toward Wilson's door. His voice was hushed and heavy with emotion.

"When he touches me… it doesn't feel _anything_ like Tritter…" A tremor passed through him as he looked up at her through haunted eyes, stricken with remembered horror. "I… I forgot how… how it felt…"

Alarm filled her at his strange remark, and the slow, distant way in which he spoke it. He still seemed a bit dazed, clearly traumatized by the new encounter with the man who had violated him. His voice trembled, and he seemed on the verge of falling apart – and understandably so.

Cuddy settled back on the couch, sliding her arms around him and drawing House with her, and he nestled into her arms, his entire body trembling, teeth chattering slightly with a combination of fear, and shock-induced cold. She took the duvet from the back of the sofa and wrapped it carefully around him, holding him close to her and murmuring soothing words into his ear – but she wished that someone could offer _her _some comfort – some reassurance that they had done the right thing.

_God, I hope we did the right thing… I hope this was worth the sacrifice House had to make…_

Seeing what their plan had done to House, she wasn't sure anymore.


	40. Chapter 40

The apartment fell into silence as Wilson left the room to go and talk to Jenna

The apartment fell into silence as Wilson left the room to go and talk to Jenna. For a long time, the only sound in the room was House's ragged, uneven breathing as he struggled to control the tears and tremors that shook through him in the aftermath of his ordeal. He was in a state of shock, his mind replaying again and again the re-enactment of his worst nightmares.

Cuddy stayed with him on the couch for over an hour… just holding him. She wrapped one arm around him, holding him protectively close to her, the fingers of the other hand gently stroking through his hair in a slow, rhythmic motion that she hoped he found comforting. He wasn't pulling away, completely unresisting – but in his traumatized state, Cuddy was afraid he might not be able to resist.

House was huddled under the blanket, trembling and shaken from the trauma of the terrorization to which he had willingly subjected himself. He clung to Cuddy desperately, his cold, white-knuckled fingers locked onto the rumpled fabric of her blouse, as she murmured soothing, reassuring words in his ear and tried to calm him.

"It's all right, House. You're safe. He's gone, and you're completely safe." She kept her voice soft and even, repeating her words over and over in the hopes that eventually, they would get through.

House just shook his head in hopeless denial, his body shaking with silent sobs as he buried his face in her shoulder. Cuddy's eyes welled with tears, overwhelmed when faced with the intensity of his brokenness and despair. _House's_ tears broke _her_ – because she had never thought she'd see anything that could make him cry.

The point of the plan had been to get the evidence they needed to give House closure – but Cuddy was afraid that the damage done in the process might not be worth it.

Cuddy stopped talking as her own silent tears began to trail down her face, and just held House, rocking slightly as she tried to make him feel safe and secure again – knowing even as she did so that her paltry efforts were a meager offering in comparison to what he was suffering. A few hugs and reassuring words could not undo the savage brutality that so devastated his body and spirit.

However, eventually, his panic began to fade away into dull acceptance. Gradually, House's tremors subsided, and his quiet, breathless sobs gave way to a heavy silence. Although he was quiet and still, however, his body remained tense against hers. Cuddy knew that, despite the fact that his tears had ceased, House's mind was still consumed with recent memories of his devastating encounter with Tritter.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with tears. He did not lift his head from her shoulder as he whispered a quiet, fearful question.

"What if this doesn't work?"

The same question was circling through Cuddy's mind as well, but she didn't think it was wise to let House know that. She kept her voice firm and certain as she replied, "It already has. We got the evidence we need, House. There's no way he can deny what he did now. We've won."

House shook his head, raising it to look her in the eye. His expression was slack with exhaustion, flat with a dull resignation, but there was no mistaking the dread in his expressive blue eyes as they met hers.

"We won't have won until he's in prison," he pointed out softly. "As long as he's free, he can… can come after us." He hesitated, drawing in a deep breath in preparation to continue, but then looking away, shaking his head slightly in defeat.

Although House's obvious attitude of hopelessness and resignation was deeply troubling to her, Cuddy couldn't argue the disturbing truth of his words. She just looked at him, her hands still holding his arms, steadying him, as she waited patiently for him to go on – because it was quite clear there was more he wanted to say.

The problem seemed to be finding the strength to say it.

At last, House poured out his fears in a trembling rush, barely restrained panic in his eyes. "What if… what if this Detective Benson can't actually help us? What if Tritter manages to get the evidence thrown out on a technicality? It happens all the time, and that's in ordinary legal proceedings – when a respected detective on the police force _doesn't_ have a major personal stake in the case," he pointed out. "And we have no idea what kind of connections he has… who his friends are. If we go through with all this – openly accuse him – and he's acquitted anyway… then… then…"

"House…" Cuddy's voice was soft, soothing, as she interrupted his breathless rant. She slowly, gently ran her hands up and down his arms, intently holding his gaze. "… breathe. Okay? We have _rock solid_ evidence. There is no way that he can deny what happened. It's right there on tape – him, confessing to what he did to you, and threatening you again. Combined with your testimony…" She shook her head, giving him an encouraging, triumphant smile. "…House… we can't lose!"

House's voice was low and uncertain when he replied with an apologetic grimace. "Um… about that. My testimony." He looked away from her puzzled frown, biting the edge of his lip as he drew in a slow, shaky breath. "I'm… I'm not so sure I can do that. Face him. In court. Tell everyone what… what he did, while he's… s-sitting right there. Watching me…"

He flinched slightly when her hand rose to cup his cheek, but she gently turned his face toward her, honesty and compassion in her eyes. "House… you _can _do it." She paused, regarding him with a sort of awed affection. "You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for."

House was silent, lowering his gaze, swallowing hard, and Cuddy's heart ached when she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes.

It was painfully obvious: Tritter's brutality had torn his dignity and self-worth to shreds, but he had been struggling to rebuild it, fighting to find the strength to stand up for himself again. Tonight's traumatic re-enactment had left him emotionally right back where he'd been immediately after the rape – broken and devastated on the ground at Tritter's feet.

House was quiet for so long that when he finally spoke again, it took Cuddy by surprise. He was staring blankly into the empty space in front of him, his mind replaying images of his own debasement at Tritter's hands. His voice was a hoarse, haunted whisper that tore at her heart with his simple, pain-filled words.

"He touched me again."

Thinking she understood where he was going with this – that he just needed to let out the horror of what had happened – Cuddy's hand slid down House's arm to clasp his hand, squeezing it gently in an attempt to bring his focus back to the safety of the present moment, without interrupting his much needed outlet.

"I know," she softly acknowledged.

"He… put his hands… all over me." House visibly suppressed a shudder, eyes downcast in shame over the hushed, humiliated words. "He… wanted to make sure I knew that he could… could do anything he wanted to do to me. That's why he… made me… get on my knees... even though he didn't actually want me to… didn't… make me…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, raising thumb and forefinger to press against his eyes as if trying to push the tears back into them and hold them there.

Cuddy bit her lip, a pained expression on her face as she raised a hand to run gently through the hair at the back of his neck. There were no words she could offer that would make any of this any better, she knew. All she could do was listen to whatever House needed to say.

At last, he looked up at her again through lowered eyes. "If he _had_ wanted me to… if he'd made me…" he confessed softly. "I would have. I… I'm not strong, Cuddy. I'm not… not brave." A tear slid down his cheek as he shook his head. "I didn't fight him. I didn't resist at all. I didn't even tell him not to touch me. I just… just took it like the good little _bitch_ I am." He looked up at her again, anguished eyes full of shame and self-disgust before they dropped to his lap again. "You think I can stand up to him in court and tell the world what he did?"

"You _did_ fight him, House. You were fighting him the whole time he was here. You _have_ to see that!" Cuddy insisted, voice trembling with the passion of her plea. "House… look at me!"

He reluctantly met her eyes, his mouth set in a taut line as he struggled to repress the emotions overwhelming him.

"You fought him in the best way you possibly could, House, and you're _still_ fighting him – every moment! _Physically_ fighting him, when he was holding a gun to your head – resisting him tonight, when you knew there was no way you could have physically overpowered him – that wouldn't have been courage, House. That's not strength. That's stupidity."

Cuddy paused, making sure he was focused on her before stating slowly, emphatically, "That would have been _suicide_ – and you're smart enough to know that, House. If you tried to physically fight him, House... he would have killed you." She paused a moment, a sudden clarity of understanding in her eyes as she continued softly, "And it would have been an easy way out."

House frowned, startled and a little confused by her words.

"It'd be easier than struggling every day to deal with the effects of what he did to you – than waiting until you have the chance to stand up to him in open court and tell the world what he did while he watches and does everything in his power to intimidate you out of telling the truth." She nodded, repeating, "It'd be easier… and it'd be the coward's way out. But you… you're too good for that, House. You're a _better man_ than that."

Cuddy's eyes shone with pride for him, her jaw set in stubborn determination as her hand slid around from the back of his head to his face, her thumb tracing gently across his lips as a soft, admiring smile spread slowly across her face.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, he's not beaten you that much yet – and he's not going to. You're going to beat _him_ – because you're going to _live, _House – and that's the opposite of what he wants. He wants to destroy you, House; he's made it his goal from the start in all of this – but you used your mind, and your skills to outsmart him, since you couldn't physically overpower him… and that means that you're going to _win_."

House looked away, but not before Cuddy caught a spark of hope amidst the former certainty of defeat she'd seen in his expression.

"Look at me."

Her voice was stern, unyielding, as she tilted his face back toward her. When he looked at her again, her face bore her best look of maternal authority as she held his gaze intently, refusing to let him look away as she spoke in a firm, clear voice that left no room for argument.

"You are incredibly strong, House – and unbelievably brave. I couldn't have done what you did tonight. I don't know a single other person who could have. It took more courage and… and _balls_ than that _bastard_ could ever _dream_ of having! And that's why you _are_ going to win this!" Cuddy laughed softly, shaking her head in affectionate admiration as she concluded, "Tritter had no idea who he was messing with when he took on Gregory House."

House stared at her for a long moment, awe and a sort of shy wonder in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, biting his lip uncertainly. He clearly wanted to respond, but seemed unable to find the words, or to get them out through the powerful emotions that filled him with her moving, inspiring words.

Sensing his awkwardness and wanting to alleviate it, Cuddy put her arms around him and pulled him back into her embrace, eliminating the expectation for further conversation. House readily accepted the gesture, relaxing against her and allowing her to hold him, his eyes closed, his forehead resting against her shoulder.

He barely breathed out his response, but Cuddy heard it, and her heart soared with hope at the gratitude and sheer relief she heard in his voice.

"_Thank you_."


	41. Chapter 41

Wilson walked back into his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him before turning to look at Jenna

Wilson walked back into his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him before turning to look at Jenna. She was seated on the bed facing toward him. She looked up when he entered – just long enough for him to see the tears that streaked her face and her red-rimmed eyes – before turning her head away, her hand rising to hurriedly wipe the tears away.

With a quiet caution, Wilson sat down beside her. She didn't acknowledge him, but she didn't move away, either – so he carefully ventured a gentle touch, resting his hand over hers on the bed between them.

"I'm… sorry you had to find out like that." His voice was soft and filled with an understanding that came from _really_ knowing just how she felt. "It's quite a shock, I know." He frowned, hesitating slightly before adding, "I just… I thought you knew, actually. I thought you'd figured it out."

Jenna's voice was thick with tears, her head lowered as she turned her face back toward him. "I knew it was more than a beating. I knew he'd been… raped," she confirmed, her voice just over a whisper, before falling silent for a long moment. Finally she confessed, her words barely audible, "I just… had no idea it was so… so brutal. The way that man talked to him… the... the things he said…"

Abruptly she looked up at Wilson, a lost, stricken look in her eyes, as if until now, she hadn't yet seen any evidence in her own life that such horrors actually existed. She shook her head slowly in helpless dismay.

"I think… I think the _mental_ assault might have been worse than the physical."

Wilson considered that for a moment before nodding slowly. "I think you might be right."

Jenna lowered her eyes again, staring into nothing. "That… that _monster_ did everything in his power to… to break him. Completely. To _demolish_ him until there was nothing left."

Wilson nodded again, squeezing her hand in reassurance. "He almost succeeded."

"Almost," Jenna echoed, meeting his eyes again with an expression of amazement. "House shouldn't even be functioning. He should be in a padded room, like Leiberman. After everything Tritter did to him – he shouldn't be able to hold it together for five minutes under the _best_ of circumstances." She paused, shaking her head slowly in wondering disbelief. "I guess I'm… a little bit in awe of the fact that he was able to go through with this. If I'd had… any idea… I never would have suggested it."

Wilson winced slightly at that, biting his lip in an unconscious reaction to the familiar feeling of uncertainty he felt at her words. He still wasn't sure that they'd made the right decision in carrying out this plan.

"I just hope… I hope he'll be all right," he admitted softly, his dark eyes troubled as they met hers in an anxious grimace. "I hope he can handle the… the trauma…"

Jenna studied his face, her own expression solemn and searching. "He can," she assured him, conviction in her voice. She hesitated a moment before explaining her conclusion. "The kind of courage it had to take, just to agree to this plan in the first place – knowing what Tritter's capable of, what he could have done to him…" She shook her head, momentarily at a loss.

A tentative smile crossed Wilson's lips, and he nodded in wary agreement. "He's… pretty amazing. I'm… just now figuring out _how_ amazing." He hesitated, his voice soft with affection, trembling with emotion. "I'm… I'm so proud of him."

There was warmth in Jenna's eyes as she turned to face Wilson more fully, reaching out to take his free hand in hers so that she was holding both his hands. He gave her a curious look in reaction to the increased intimacy of the gesture, and she responded with an affectionate smile.

"And I'm proud of _you_," she stated quietly.

Wilson let out a soft scoffing sound, rolling his eyes before giving her a dubious look. "For what?"

"For the kind of care you've been taking of House. For… how devoted you are to him." Jenna looked away with a shy little shrug as she explained, "My job is… is watching people. Observing. And… I've been observing _you_ for the last week or so… watching how you've been handling this… unimaginably difficult situation. And… I've come to a conclusion."

Wilson watched her with a smile of embarrassed amusement as she spoke. When she stopped, he waited a moment before pressing, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"And what's that?"

There was no mistaking the admiration and attraction in Jenna's eyes. "That you really _are _the kind, generous, loving man you appear to be." Her voice softened as she added wistfully, "I was… starting to wonder if those still existed at all."

"Don't give me too much credit," Wilson advised with a weary sigh, looking away with a quiet rage in his dark eyes. "The things I'm thinking right now are anything but generous and loving."

"And see," Jenna continued, unfazed, "that's amazing, too. You go on and on about _House's_ courage in all this – and rightfully so. But… you were ready to go out there and take on Tritter yourself to protect him, knowing that he's not only a cold-blooded killer, but a trained cop as well. There's every reason to believe that he'd have the advantage in a confrontation – but that didn't matter to you."

Embarrassed by her praise, Wilson waved a dismissive hand and shook his head. "You're still giving me too much credit," he insisted. "You have no idea how many times I've done exactly the _wrong_ thing in the past week…"

"At least you're doing _something_," Jenna pointed out. "At least you're trying. A lot of people wouldn't even still be around. This would be too much for them to handle."

When Wilson opened his mouth to protest again, Jenna silenced him with a gentle finger across his lips, leaning in closer and shaking her head firmly.

"Stop," she ordered softly, meeting his eyes in an intense gaze that made him abruptly forget whatever it was he had been planning to say. "James Wilson… just stop _thinking_ so much for a minute."

In hindsight, given their close physical proximity… her touch on his lips… the sense of closeness that came from their brief moments of shared emotion – Wilson thought that he probably shouldn't have heeded her advice.

At the moment, however – it seemed to be exactly the right thing to do.

As Jenna's finger slipped down away from his lips, he felt its loss acutely, and found himself wanting to replace it with an even softer touch. She leaned closer, huge blue-grey eyes locked onto his in a shock of newly realized desire, and awed understanding of what was happening between them.

Wilson put his hands on her arms, just below her shoulders, gently pulling her forward to close the last little bit of distance between them. Before he knew it was going to happen, his lips were on hers – gently, tentatively seeking the comfort of connection.

Had he taken time to think, Wilson would have known that the timing was terrible. They had far greater things to worry about at the moment. The kiss was happening for the wrong reasons; he and Jenna were both in a particularly vulnerable state at the moment, and seeking to reassure themselves, to chase away the fearful, troubling thoughts that threatened to consume their minds.

But Wilson had already decided _not_ to think, not now… just to _feel_.

Unfortunately, the dark mental images he was trying so hard to avoid would not be ignored.

Abruptly, he broke away from the kiss, the hands that had drawn Jenna closer to him now pushing her away as he lurched to his feet. Jenna stared up at him in bewildered dismay, one hand rising to her mouth as she stood up beside him.

"James…?"

"I'm sorry," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the door, not looking at her. "I can't do this right now. I just… I just can't do this."

Wilson deliberately avoided looking at her – avoided seeing the inevitable expression of hurt and confusion and insecurity on her face – as he stepped out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him and heading for the kitchen, without so much as a glance at the couch where House and Cuddy sat quietly talking. There was no reason why he should deprive them of their privacy.

He reached the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, gulping it down swiftly in an attempt to suppress the sudden urge he felt to vomit.

It wasn't that the kiss was a bad one, because it wasn't – far from it, in fact. He simply couldn't face Jenna right then, couldn't bear to explain to he why he had felt the need to leave the room so quickly, to end their furtive, fledgling encounter before it could begin. There was no reason for her to know the troubling, possibly hurtful truth.

All Wilson could see when he closed his eyes was the image his mind had concocted to match what his ears had heard outside his bedroom door – Tritter, forcing House to his knees in front of him, menacing him with his gun and viciously degrading him for his own sadistic amusement. Disgust and revulsion mingled with his inevitable guilt for daring to think of his own pleasure and comfort at a time such as this, until it was impossible for Wilson to imagine continuing what he and Jenna had very nearly started.

Not tonight, anyway.

It wasn't her fault, but Wilson simply couldn't bring himself to try to explain to Jenna why, at the moment, kissing her made him feel physically sick.

*******************************

Detective Marcus Benson leaned stiffly forward in his seat and switched off the monitor on his desk, then leaned back in his chair, still staring at the now-blank screen. His expression was one of practiced control, but his eyes revealed the state of grim dismay in which the disturbing video recording had left him.

Jenna sat quietly in the chair across from him, grateful that the position of the monitor prevented her from seeing the screen. Just hearing the audio again had been bad enough, reminding her of the awful night before, when it had been recorded. House's shell-shocked, stricken eyes were clearly imprinted in her mind, filling her thoughts as she listened to Tritter's softly threatening voice on the video.

She kept her eyes focused on Benson's face, trying to gauge his reaction. "So what do you think?" she asked at last when he didn't speak. "Do we have a case?"

Benson nodded slowly. "Once forensics confirms that it hasn't been doctored in any way… and if Dr. House is willing to give me his statement… we should be able to get a warrant for Tritter's arrest within twenty-four hours. He'll be in custody before he ever suspects a thing."

Jenna nodded, letting out a shaky sigh of relief. "Great. I can arrange for you to meet with Dr. House this afternoon. It'll have to be somewhere private. We're pretty sure he's being followed on a regular basis, and if he's seen with you before the warrant's issued…"

Benson nodded. "Of course." He paused, frowning. "One problem."

Jenna's breath caught in her throat, and she waited anxiously for him to go on.

"We can't be sure who on the force might be in Tritter's camp, can we?" Benson pointed out. "And someone in forensics has to check out the tape and sign off on its validity in order to get a warrant issued. Without the tape, it's House's word against Tritter's. But if someone in forensics tips Tritter off before we get the warrant…"

Relief consumed Jenna's fears, and she waved a hand dismissively as she interrupted. "Oh, that… that's nothing. I've got that covered." She waited a moment, smiling in giddy triumph as Benson gave her a questioning look. "My brother's in multimedia forensics. I'll personally deliver it to him and make sure he's the only one to see it before the warrant is issued."

Benson nodded slowly, accepting that. "Good. Give me his name, and I'll run a quick check on his record, then drop it off." At Jenna's slight frown, he explained, "I know he's your brother, and you trust him, but I have to think about this objectively. I'm sure he's safe, but I want to check and be sure there's no connection between him and Tritter before I hand it off to him."

Jenna slowly nodded her reluctant agreement. "Of course. Better safe than sorry and all. It's Andrew. Andrew Leander."

She rose and headed for the door, feeling a thousand pounds lighter than she'd felt when she'd walked into Benson's office.

"Ms. Leander."

She turned in the doorway. "Yes?"

Benson smiled, the first real smile she had seen since she'd met him. "Thanks," was his sincere reply, satisfaction in his voice. "We're finally going to nail this bastard."

****************************

Andrew Leander stared in horror at the scene playing out on the video screen in front of him.

The aggressor on the video was unmistakably Michael Tritter, and there was no question as to the validity of the tape he was watching. It was completely untouched, undeniably genuine. Though the camera had obviously been somehow worn by the victim, so his face was not in the frame, there was no mistaking the clear terror in his pleading, desperate voice as Tritter threatened him with sickening promises of violence and violation.

He couldn't believe that this disturbing, sickening video had come from his _sister's _hands.

_Oh, Jenna… Jenna, what are you getting yourself into?_

He removed the tape from the recorder, placing it into an evidence bag and labeling it with a trembling hand. He felt a deep, swelling sickness in the pit of his stomach as he stared down at the sealed evidence bag on the table in front of him, wondering what to do next.

_Of all the private investigators in New Jersey, this guy had to hire _Jenna_? No… no, this can't be happening…_

But it was – and his life as he knew it was over.

The voice of the victim on the tape was clear, distinctive, unmistakable – the voice of the man that he and four others had attacked in the parking garage of Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, nearly two weeks before. Tritter had assured him that there would be no evidence of the crime they'd committed – and yet, here was the evidence, in his own hands.

_Jenna… oh, Jenna… My God, what have you done?_


	42. Chapter 42

Wilson cast a cautious glance in House's direction as he drove, trying not to appear overly concerned

Wilson cast a cautious glance in House's direction as he drove, trying not to appear overly concerned. They had an appointment with Detective Benson at Cuddy's house in fifteen minutes, and Wilson had naturally expected that as the time drew nearer for him to tell his traumatic story yet again, House would gradually begin to show signs of panic.

Strangely, House was quiet and calm, staring blankly out the window as they made their way to Cuddy's house.

Wilson wasn't sure whether he should be worried or relieved.

It was six o'clock when they pulled into Cuddy's driveway. Wilson knew that Benson would have been there for several hours already, having arrived while all possible objects of Tritter's observation were at the hospital, and Cuddy's house presumably unwatched. He walked around the car to help House out, more relieved than stung when House irritably pushed his helping hands away, opting instead to struggle to his feet on his own.

Cuddy let them in, moving away from the door to reveal Marcus Benson, seated on her sofa. Wilson couldn't help but hover protectively at House's side as the tall, stocky detective rose to his feet and moved toward House with a hand extended in greeting.

"Dr. House? I'm Detective Marcus Benson."

House tensed, ignoring the offered hand in favor of a silent, grudging nod. He kept a wary distance between himself and Benson, to which the other man quickly caught on, returning to his seat on the sofa, and a less intimidating seated position.

"I've… been talking with Dr. Cuddy, and I've told her already. You're making the right decision here, in coming forward. Your testimony, in combination with the evidence Ms. Leander turned in, is going to help us put away a monster who's been abusing his power for years."

"Yeah, I get it," House nodded impatiently, his voice low and unusually subdued. "Can we just do this?"

"Right." Benson's voice became slightly gentler, a knowing expression in his eyes. "If you don't mind, I'm going to record our conversation as evidence," Benson explained as he took a hand-held tape recorder from his pocket. "Is that all right, Dr. House?"

Wilson frowned with concern as House hesitated, swallowing hard, but then nodded his consent. Benson started the tape recorder, speaking the date, time, and location of the interview into it before setting it down on the coffee table between them.

"Dr. House… just tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened on the evening of February 14th, when you left the hospital."

Wilson stood at a comfortable distance from House's chair and a little behind it, though close enough to help if he was needed. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he shifted anxiously from one foot to the other, biting his lip, his brow furrowed in concern. His entire body was tensed for the breakdown that he half-expected. It had been hard enough for House to tell him and Cuddy about what had happened to him.

How was he possibly going to handle telling a complete stranger?

House's voice was remarkably steady and calm as he quietly launched into his story.

"I was in the parking garage, headed for my motorcycle, when a car pulled up beside it. A dark blue sedan. Tritter and four other men got out and came toward me. I fought them, but they… overpowered me. They cuffed my hands and… put some kind of hood over my head so I couldn't see them… what they were doing… where they were taking me."

Wilson listened in amazement as House recounted the details of his abduction and assault, with barely a tremor in his voice, and only slight hesitation. His voice was unnaturally calm, controlled, betraying only the barest trace of emotion.

There were only a few small clues to hint at the emotional toll it was taking on him – the taut set of his shoulders… his white knuckles locked around the handle of his cane… his wide blue eyes focused firmly on the tape recorder on the coffee table, refusing to look up even for a moment.

"Wait." Benson frowned slightly, confused by something House had said, and Wilson forced his attention back to the actual conversation. "I thought you said there were _five_ men. But _four _of them actually assaulted you?"

"One of them stayed behind. I guess he's the one who moved my bike, because my bike was parked outside my apartment when I got out of the hospital," House explained. "Tritter and the other three took me in the car to a cabin. Tritter told me later that it was his. They… took my clothes off, and… chained me to a pipe and… and beat me with my cane. Then… Tritter… took me into a bedroom and… raped me. When he was finished, he took me back into the living room, and he… let the others have me…"

"Let them…?"

Benson's voice was gently pressing for clarification. As painful as it was, House had to be as specific as possible.

"Let them… rape me. All of them… more than once…"

House's voice was very soft, and Wilson was afraid that Benson would have to ask him to speak up if it got any softer. Although House stayed remarkably calm and steady, Wilson could clearly hear the muted anguish and shame beneath the surface of his words. All he wanted to do was to reach out and wrap his arms around his friend, to support him through this necessary ordeal. He settled for a subtle step forward, a gentle hand resting reassuringly on House's shoulder.

To his relief, House didn't shrug off the gesture, seemed in fact to take comfort and courage from it. His voice seemed to grow a little steadier, a little stronger, as he told the rest of his story, answering Benson's questions simply and precisely, and with chilling detail.

By the time he was finished, Cuddy was crying without a sound, silent tears streaking her face. Wilson was glad that he was standing behind House, his own tears not visible, not able to further increase House's shame and discomfort. To his credit, Benson remained calm, not visibly affected by House's painful story, and Wilson wondered how many such horrors he had heard before in the course of his career.

When Benson was finally satisfied that he had a complete account of what had happened, he turned off the tape recorder, putting it away and giving House a reassuring smile.

"Thank you," he said with complete sincerity. "We're going to get him, Dr. House. We should have a warrant within twenty-four hours. You'll be safe now."

"Thanks, Detective Benson," Wilson spoke up when House did not seem inclined to respond, leaning forward to shake the man's hand. "We'd better go. Be sure that anyone who's tailing us is with _us_ before you leave. It wouldn't be a good thing if they saw you leave here."

Benson nodded his agreement, and turned to a conversation with Cuddy as Wilson and House made their way out the door and to Wilson's car. House didn't speak a word the entire time, or during the drive home. To Wilson's alarm, House didn't even glance to the side as Wilson led him up the walkway to their door. He seemed to be in a sort of daze, completely lost in his own thoughts.

And the likely nature of those thoughts was what gave Wilson cause for alarm.

Once the door was locked securely behind them, Wilson turned to his friend, reaching out a cautious hand to touch his arm.

"House." His urgent, pleading voice ached with concern. "Talk to me."

House tensed under his hand, but did not pull away – though Wilson wasn't entirely sure that meant he was okay with it. His eyes were wide and downcast, his jaw stubbornly set, though his mouth was trembling, as he whispered a simple response in a low, shaky voice.

"No."

House slowly extricated his arm from Wilson's hand, meeting his eyes for just a moment with something resembling regret, before going to his own bedroom and closing the door firmly – shutting Wilson out completely.

******************************

Jenna sat on her sofa, restlessly changing the channels with her remote control, unable to focus on anything that was on. She felt a cautious sense of relief, satisfied that she had done her job, and done it well; but the frustrating fact was that she knew she wouldn't be able to truly relax until she was sure that Tritter was behind bars, and House and Wilson were truly safe.

_No… don't think about James…_ she warned herself sternly. _That's not a good place to go right now. He's not ready, and he shouldn't be distracted right now. He was right to stop it, before things went any further. He was right to…_

A knock at her door drew her mercifully from the thoughts she couldn't seem to avoid, and she rose to her feet with relief to answer it. Her eyes widened with surprise when she saw the person standing there.

"Andrew." She stepped back to allow him in as she asked, "What are you doing here? Is everything all right?"

Her brother was silent as he walked past her into the living room, sitting down on her sofa and leaning forward with his head in his hands. "No, Jenna," he replied, his voice a low moan. "Nothing is all right."

A sense of alarm made her stomach tremble as she sat down beside him, reaching out to touch his arm, trying to pull it down and reveal his face to her.

"Andrew… what is it? What's the matter? Did Tritter find out…?"

"No." Andrew shook his head, looking up, and Jenna was surprised and worried to see tears in his eyes. "No… I wouldn't… I mean…" He lowered his head again, shaking it in despair. "God, this can't be happening…"

"Andrew, _what_?_ What's_ happening?" Jenna persisted, frustrated and impatient.

"I didn't know." Andrew's voice was pleading, trembling. "I didn't know what was going to happen. He said… he told us…" He shook his head, his voice trailing off.

Jenna frowned, confused, though a cold, sick ache began in the pit of her stomach. "Who, Andrew?" she pressed, her voice barely over a whisper. "Who told you… what?"

Andrew looked up at her, his eyes damp with tears, stricken with shame. He was silent for a long moment, before finally whispering his response.

"_Tritter_."

Though a part of her had already suspected the truth, Jenna's eyes widened in horror. She shook her head, instinctively leaning back away from her brother.

"No…" she whispered. "Andrew… what did you do? Tell me you didn't…"

"I didn't hurt him!" Andrew insisted, voice desperate and trembling as he reached out to grasp her arms and pull her back toward him. "Jenna, I swear it! I never touched him! I didn't know… had no idea what… what Tritter was going to do!"

Jenna was silent, her mind full of questions she was afraid to ask, waiting in breathless horror for her brother's explanation.

"He told us… he said this House was… a drug dealer. Said he'd killed a cop, and got away with it, years ago. He said that the recent case was just another time he'd gotten away with his crimes… and he wanted to make sure he _didn't_ get away with it. He… he said he was just going to… to teach him a lesson. Rough him up a little, give him a… a warning…"

Jenna stared at him, stricken, desperately afraid of what he might tell her next.

"Jenna, I swear to you," Andrew whispered, his panicked gaze intent on hers. "I never touched him. All I did was move the bike. Tritter said… to leave his bike outside his apartment. To let him know… that… that we knew where he lived."

Andrew lowered his head, shoulders shaking with sobs, and he let go of Jenna to cover his mouth with his arm, visibly sick as he realized the impact that threat must have had on the victim of Tritter's attack.

"Andrew… how could you… how could you keep quiet about this?" Jenna asked, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could you know what Tritter did to him… and not tell anyone?"

"I didn't know!" Andrew insisted. "I thought they beat him up! I didn't know what really happened until… until I watched that tape you sent me. I swear it, Jenna, if I'd known, I couldn't have kept it a secret, but… but I had no idea! I didn't know what he was going to do, Jenna! You have to believe me! There's _no way_ I would have helped him if I'd known…"

"How did you ever even get mixed up with a creep like Tritter?" Jenna demanded, her voice trembling with anger as she began to recover from the initial shock. "Andrew, what ever possessed you to even go along with this at all? Have you been working with Tritter for… how long?"

"No, it's not like that," he insisted. "I've never done anything like this before! I thought… I thought he was doing a good thing. Punishing a killer who got away with it. I didn't know… Jenna, I'm so sorry!" Andrew looked up at her, a stricken expression in his eyes. "I had no idea he was so dangerous. But… if he finds out that you know about this… Jenna, you're in a lot of danger."

"Only for the next twenty-four hours or so," Jenna replied with a dubious sigh. "Once we can get a warrant issued…"

"Someone else will have to look at the tape first," Andrew informed her, his voice hushed and trembling slightly. "If I sign off on the tape, it'll ruin your case later on."

Jenna frowned, momentarily confused.

"You think Tritter's not gonna rat out everyone who was involved at all, if he thinks it'll help him get off easier?" Andrew's voice was full of mingled fear and resignation. "I'm done, Jenna. If I don't go to jail over this, I'll at least lose my job. And once it comes out that I was involved, my signature on that tape will make it inadmissible."

"Damn it," Jenna whispered, looking away, biting her lip as she tried to think of a way around the problem.

"As far as I know, no one else in forensics has worked with Tritter," Andrew assured her. "If you can get this to forensics right away and have someone else sign off on it, you can still get a warrant right away." He paused, considering a moment before looking up at her, hope mingled with the guilt and fear in his eyes. "I can testify, if they want me to. I can tell them what I know about what happened."

Jenna began to feel a shred of hope amidst the confusion and shock of what her brother had revealed. "That… might be a very good thing," she conceded slowly, cautiously. "I'm sure they'll want you to testify… and _maybe_ you can get some leniency for doing so. But… I can't guarantee that, Andrew. You might still have to pay for your part in what happened to Dr. House."

Andrew met her eyes, a hollow, dejected look on his face. "If I have to," he whispered, "then I have to. I hope I don't, but… even if I _do_ have to go to jail for this… I have to do everything I can to make it right."


	43. Chapter 43

House closed the door to his bedroom quietly in a subconscious attempt to take some of the sting out of the gesture which was quite obviously meant to shut Wilson out completely. Under different circumstances, House wouldn't have bothered to try to spare Wilson's feelings.

Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have felt that he owed his friend his life.

_Great. Guilt, on top of terror, disgust, and self-loathing. Just what I need._

Apparently, the universe wasn't all that concerned with what House needed at the moment.

The door was barely closed when House felt a strong hand close over his mouth, a second arm that felt like an iron band wrapping around his torso and pinning his arms to his sides. House's panicked cry was smothered by Tritter's hand as he struggled uselessly against his unseen captor – until a familiar voice turned his insides to jelly, instantly overpowering his will to resist.

"You're not gonna try anything stupid… like screaming, trying to fight me… are you, House? You just keep your mouth _shut_!"

House was spun roughly around and shoved hard into the wall, bringing him face-to-face with the object of his nightmares. His mouth went dry as Tritter reached out to slowly, deliberately lock the door, watching House closely as he did, drinking in the shock and dread in his wide, terrified eyes.

Panicked, House struggled, trying to escape Tritter's restraining grasp, but the larger, stronger man just slammed him into the wall again. House gasped in pain at the impact to his battered tailbone, as Tritter's hand locked around his throat, silencing the cry that rose in his throat.

"Don't you _dare_ pull away from me!" Tritter snarled. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile as he edged nearer, his hot breath against House's ear sending a shudder of revulsion down his spine as he whispered a menacing challenge. "_Move. Again_."

House immediately went still, shaking his head and closing his eyes, his trembling hands raised in front of him in an urgent, silent indication that he would not resist again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered desperately. "I'm sorry, please…"

"Stupid… little… _bitch_," Tritter whispered, deliberately emphasizing the last word with a sadistic smirk. "Did you really think you could beat me? Did you think I wouldn't know what you were up to, House? That I'd let you get away with lying to me? Deliberately going against my orders?"

House shook his head pleadingly, choking back a sob of panic. "Please… I'm sorry…"

"That tape? The evidence against me you went through so much to get?" Tritter sneered in a voice of cold triumph. "Gone. Destroyed. You passed it off to the wrong person, House. It'll never see the inside of a courtroom…" His hand tightened slightly around House's throat, cutting off his breath completely. "… and neither will you."

Unable to resist his instinct for survival, House raised his hands in a useless struggle for oxygen, scrabbling weakly against Tritter's grip. Tritter abruptly released him, only to backhand him hard across the face, knocking him into the wall hard enough to cause him to momentarily black out. When House's vision and awareness returned, he was on the floor on his knees, Tritter's boot impacting painfully with his ribcage.

Panicked, House tried to crawl toward the door, his clumsy, shaking fingers grasping at the soft carpet beneath them, but making no progress. A hoarse, desperate plea rasped from his torn, aching throat.

"_Help me… please… Wilson… help_…"

Even as the unheard words left his lips, House felt an overwhelming sense of shame for uttering them. This was not Wilson's responsibility… not Wilson's problem. He had brought this on himself, and had no right to place Wilson – or Cuddy, or Jenna, or anyone else at all – in harm's way to protect _him_.

And yet… he had.

His friends had risked everything to keep him safe.

Before he could reach the door, Tritter jerked House to his feet again, dragging him toward the bed. Despite his resolve, blind terror of what he knew was to come made House call out for help again – but his voice was silent. His eyes widened in terror, his breath quickening as he tried to scream… but made not a sound.

Tritter laughed out loud, apparently unconcerned that he might be heard – and a moment later, House found out the dreadful reason why.

"No one can hear you, House," Tritter sneered as he shoved House down onto his back on the bed. "I told you what would happen if you opened your mouth, didn't I? But you didn't listen. And now, they're dead. They're all dead… because of _you_."

Devastated, House shook his head in desperate denial. "No…" The pleading word was a soundless whisper on his silenced lips. "No… please, no…"

Tritter's smile was cold, mocking, as he climbed onto the bed, straddling House's hips and pinning him there. "Too late." He leaned in to whisper in House's ear. "You already made your choice."

When Tritter began to unfasten his belt, House's stomach lurched with sick horror, and he struggled uselessly to escape the oppressive weight of his attacker. He cried out for help that he knew would not come, screaming soundlessly into the stark emptiness of the abandoned apartment that would become the scene of his death.

_Please, no! Please, someone _hear_ me, please!_ he sobbed in his mind, as his worst fears were realized, and his cries for help, for justice, went unheeded.

"Shut up."

Tritter snarled as he slapped House in the face, momentarily stunning him. Despair took over, and House no longer felt the will to fight when he felt Tritter's hands working the fastenings of his jeans. He stopped trying to be heard, his desperate cries for aid, for mercy, echoing only in the trapped silence of his own mind.

_Please… please, don't… please, _somebody_ help me…_

*****************************

Wilson did his best to respect the closed door House had so deliberately placed between them, and the need for privacy it indicated. However, when he heard a strange thumping sound from the other side of the door, followed by other suspicious noises, Wilson's concern got the better of him. Drawing in a deep breath, steeling himself for the sharp rebuff he fully expected, Wilson knocked quietly on House's bedroom door.

"House? You all right in there?"

He frowned when there was no response, leaning closer to the door when he thought he heard someone inside, talking very quietly. He knocked again, a little louder.

"House?"

Wilson listened very closely, and this time, clearly heard a quiet sob. Alarm overcame caution, and he tried the doorknob, relieved to find it unlocked. He pushed the door open slowly, not wanting to intrude on House's privacy anymore than necessary – then frowned when he found the room apparently empty.

The source of the sounds Wilson had heard, however, was now much easier to find. Wilson followed them around the bed, his shoulders slumping with mingled relief and heartache when he found House on the floor between the bed and the wall, his back pressed against the base of the bed. He was curled into a near fetal position, shaking violently, crying quietly in his sleep.

Perhaps more devastating than his tears was the fact that he was not thrashing, not struggling against the perceived threat that haunted his dreams. There was a sort of despairing acceptance in House's soft sobs, the way he huddled next to the bed, trembling with terror and trauma, but not fighting.

"House." Wilson kept his voice quiet, gentle, as he knelt beside his friend and reached out a cautious hand to rest on his arm. "House, wake up. You need to wake up."

House flinched at his touch, shaking his head and drawing away from him. "Please…" he whispered, and the barely audible syllable was full of such desperate, broken terror that it nearly shattered Wilson to hear it. "Please, don't… no…"

"House… shhh, it's okay…" Wilson shifted slowly closer to his friend, reaching out to gently shake his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. "It's just me… it's Wilson. It's all right; you just need to wake up…"

Wilson's words broke off in surprise, as, at the mention of his name, House abruptly reached out to grasp his arm, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, recognizing Wilson's words with a desperate hope. Finally, he raised his head and opened his eyes, blinking sleepily into the semi-darkness of the room.

House was hesitant, flinching slightly, as if still expecting an attack – but then, his eyes locked onto Wilson's. He still seemed a little confused, but there was an overwhelming sense of relief on his face when at last he recognized the face of his best friend.

"Wilson," he sobbed, lowering his forehead to rest on Wilson's arm, as if simply trying to reassure himself that he was actually there. "_Wilson_…"

Tears blurred Wilson's vision as he pushed his back against the wall, drawing House firmly but carefully into his arms, encouraged when his friend did not resist his efforts, but rather clung to him, sinking into his embrace with desperate relief.

"It's okay… it's okay," Wilson reassured him, gently cradling House and rocking slowly, trying to soothe away the remnants of his nightmare. "You're safe, House… it was just a dream…"

"Just a dream," House echoed in a hoarse whisper. "You're _alive_… just a dream…"

Those telling words hit Wilson hard, and he choked back a sob of his own as he pulled House closer to him, anger welling up inside him as he deduced somewhat of the nature of House's nightmares.

"We're both safe, House. We're _all_ safe," he amended soothingly. "Everything's gonna be all right. Just a few more hours, and we'll all be completely safe for good. This will all be over."

He knew even as he spoke the words that they weren't _entirely_ true. There was still a long, difficult road ahead of them, even once Tritter was arrested. But all he cared about in that moment was offering House some sense of stability and comfort.

He should have known better than to think that House would accept a _false_ comfort, even in his state of vulnerability.

House raised his head, haunted eyes meeting Wilson's as he slowly, despairingly shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No… it's nowhere near over." He paused, lowering his gaze for a moment, staring into space, still seeing images from his nightmares, before burying his head on Wilson's shoulder again, choking back a deep sob. His final words, barely audible against the fabric of Wilson's t-shirt, send a chill of apprehension through Wilson, as he struggled to believe that they were not true.

"It won't _ever_ be over."

******************************

The following evening, in a large, comfortable home on the other side of town, someone else was reliving House's nightmare – not with suffering and dread, but with sadistic pleasure.

Michael Tritter felt a sense of satisfaction when he thought of the way House had broken again, so easily, under his renewed threats. For a little while there, the stubborn, prideful doctor had given him cause for alarm – trying to evade his attempts to contact him, disobeying his orders regarding his job at the hospital… even going so far as to hire a private investigator.

That _didn't last long_, Tritter thought with a smug smile, raising his glass in a silent toast to his own powers of persuasion. _Brought him back down to size quick enough._

He felt a delicious thrill of pleasure at the thought of how House had submitted to him, sinking to his knees upon command, swiftly remembering who it was that held the power in their twisted "relationship".

Tritter picked up his cell phone, considering.

_Maybe I ought to give him a call… make sure he doesn't get the chance to get forgetful again…_

Before he could begin to dial, however, the doorbell rang.

Tritter frowned thoughtfully, glancing toward the door as he slowly rose to his feet and headed toward it. He couldn't imagine who might be calling on him at this time of the evening, especially since any of his coworkers who might be paying him a social visit was on duty at the moment.

He opened the door, and was surprised to see two uniformed police officers outside – men that he recognized, but did not know that well, from the Princeton force. He felt a vague sense of unease, wondering what they might want, if perhaps there was some sort of emergency involving one of his cases, and he was needed at the station.

"Clancy… Rogers," he greeted them with cool curiosity, stepping back and opening the door wider. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

When neither of them responded, or returned his casual, lazy smile, Tritter's unease began to develop into a genuine anxiety. Still, he kept his tone light and unconcerned as he persisted.

"Everything all right, boys? Should I be getting my coat?"

He studied their faces, troubled by the way they just stood there, staring at him through sober, troubled eyes. After a few moments, Tritter _knew_ – he could read the disgust, the disbelief, in their expressions.

"You might need it," Rogers replied at last, his words slow and cautious, eyeing Tritter with suspicion as at last he stepped into his foyer. "We're going down to the station."

"What's wrong?"

Tritter was unable to mask a slight tremor in his voice – because deep down, he already knew, even before Clancy's voice took on a cool, professional tone that Tritter had heard countless times from dozens of cops during the course of his career. Never before had it held such a personal impact for him.

Never before had it been the death knell of everything he'd spent his life building.

"Michael Tritter," Clancy intoned, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his cuffs. "You're under arrest, for kidnapping, rape, and murder. You have the right to remain silent…"


	44. Chapter 44

"I know it's hard to accept, Wilson. But the nightmares, the flashbacks… they're all… normal." Cuddy's lips twisted into an apologetic grimace over the word as she met Wilson's eyes from her seat beside him on the sofa. "This is especially hard for us to watch, because we're not used to seeing House like this. So… so _vulnerable_. But… everything you've described to me just sounds like… normal post-traumatic stress disorder."

Wilson shook his head helplessly, his eyes focused on his hands. "This was so much worse than the other ones, Cuddy. You… you didn't see him. It was like he… like he just _gave up_. He wasn't… struggling, wasn't trying to fight back at all. He was just…"

"He _wouldn't_ try to fight, Wilson," Cuddy reminded him gently, reaching out a hand to cover his, silently encouraging him to meet her eyes. "Tritter convinced him not to. He's made amazing progress in the past couple of weeks. Just the fact that he was willing to tell his story to Detective Benson… to come forward at all… is remarkable. But in his nightmares, nothing we've done matters. There… Tritter's still in control."

"I want to kill him," Wilson muttered, and Cuddy clearly detected the tremor of tears in his voice. "I want to make that bastard pay for what he's done to him… what he's… reduced him to."

"He's going to be in jail in a few hours," Cuddy reminded him. "Right now, we need to focus on what we can do to help House."

"He needs to see a therapist," Wilson stated quietly. "He's not going to get through this until he talks about it."

Cuddy nodded reluctantly with a heavy sigh. "The problem is… he was never open about his issues to begin with. He needs to see a therapist, but… he wouldn't talk about anything _before_. There's no way he's going to open up to a professional _now_."

"I know," Wilson wearily conceded, raising a hand to his eyes and shaking his head, at a loss. "We just… have to find a way to… to convince him. Somehow." He looked up at Cuddy, desperate determination in his eyes. "He's internalizing everything, just like he always does, except… this time, this isn't something he's able to even _pretend_ to deal with. What Tritter did to him was… beyond violation. He tortured him. He broke him completely. The most well-adjusted person would take years of therapy to recover, and even then… it's not a sure thing."

Cuddy's brow creased with worry as she listened. "And House wasn't even close to well-adjusted to begin with. Now, he's got more reason than ever to believe that no one could ever understand what he's going through – that there's no one he can trust enough to talk to. But keeping all this inside is… is slowly driving him out of his mind."

He was quiet for a moment, looking down, and when he finally met Cuddy's eyes again, his own were shining with tears.

"If he doesn't talk to _someone_ about this… not just about what happened, but about how he _feels_ about it… what it's done to him… he's going to lose his mind."

They shared a sobered silence for a few moments, each considering the weighted truth of Wilson's words. Finally, Wilson let out a shaky breath as he rose to his feet.

"Anyway… thanks for coming like this. I've got several very important appointments with patients today, and I just thought… I just… didn't want to leave him alone right now."

Cuddy nodded with an understanding smile and a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Are you sure it's all right? You don't have anything… important, at the hospital today?" Wilson asked, concern in his voice.

Cuddy's solemn gaze turned toward House's bedroom door as she replied, "Not more important than this."

****************************

Unfortunately, Wilson's meetings with patients were spaced out awkwardly throughout the day, not leaving him the option of simply leaving once they were finished. He had lots of free time in between appointments, which he decided to spend in the clinic. After all, if Cuddy was spending her day with House in his place, the least he could do was to try to make things run a bit more smoothly while she was gone.

Also, it made it easier to avoid House's entirely too curious team.

Cameron had tried to corner him once, asking about House and where he was, if he was okay, but fortunately, Wilson's first patient had arrived at that time, and the conversation was mercifully cut short before Cameron could find out anything potentially humiliating for House. As far as Wilson was concerned, neither Cameron nor the others had any right to know the details of House's situation; and until an actual arrest was made, it would actually be _dangerous_ for them to know.

"Dr. Wilson," a nurse apprehended him on his way to the next random exam room, pressing a chart into his hand. "This patient is requesting Dr. House. I told her he's not in today, but she's insistent. I thought maybe… you might be able to…"

Wilson nodded, taking the chart and opening it. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he could not remember why. He felt an odd sense of déjà vu, however, as he stepped into the room and looked at the patient seated on the exam table. Though he knew he had seen her before, it took her quiet, firm voice to remind him of exactly when and where.

"I need to see Dr. House. I asked specifically for him."

"I'm sorry," he told her with a rueful, apologetic smile, "but as the nurse told you, Dr. House is out today."

"I know, but… I'm just following up from our visit a couple of months ago, and I… I really don't want to talk to anyone else," the young woman insisted. "Can't you just… call him, maybe? See if he can come in?"

Wilson noticed that she seemed much calmer, more in control and secure than she had been the last time he'd seen her, and wondered at what might have happened in her life between then and now. These thoughts circled in his mind as he started to respond, automatically shutting her down in favor of sparing House any additional stress.

"I'm sorry, but he's not feeling well today, and there's no way he can come in." He started to explain, but his words trailed off toward the end of the statement, and a thoughtful expression came over his face, as a strangely hopeful idea occurred to him. He gave her an appraising look, then added slowly, "But… I'm sure he'll be available tomorrow. If you really want to talk to just him… come back tomorrow, and I'll make sure that he's here."

****************************

"Wilson's an idiot."

House made the harsh declaration irritably as he rose to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, toward the beer in his refrigerator and away from Cuddy's continued, albeit gentle, suggestions that he think about seeing a therapist.

"No… Wilson's concerned," Cuddy corrected, raising her voice enough that he could hear her from her seat on the sofa. She waited until he appeared in the doorway, allowing her to make eye contact as she added, "And so am I. House… you need to talk to someone."

"I've talked to you; I've talked to Wilson, apparently more than I should have. If I feel another attack of pathetic-wuss-itis coming on again, trust me, you'll be the first to know. But I am _not_ going to some quack shrink who thinks that reliving my ultimate nightmare for a stranger is going to somehow make it go away."

House's voice was scathing as he walked back into the living room, but did not take his seat at Cuddy's side again, choosing instead to release some of his anger and frustration by pacing furiously back and forth across the living room floor.

Cuddy's voice was gentle but verging on desperate as she quietly replied. "House… you have to do _something_. You can't sleep. You can't be alone. You can barely function…"

"I'm _fine_," he insisted, cutting her off as he turned to glare at her, momentarily ceasing his pacing. "It was just a nightmare. Wilson was just… overreacting, as usual."

"Right." Cuddy raised a single eyebrow to accompany her dubious look. "You do realize I've actually _been_ here for the past few weeks, right?"

House flinched slightly at the reminder of just how much of his weakness she had seen. His shoulders tensed, and he turned away from her without a word, lowering his gaze in shame. Cuddy felt an immediate wave of guilt for her casual comment, as she rose to her feet and made her way cautiously toward him.

"House… it's okay," she insisted, moving around him to face him, looking up at him with a reassuring, sympathetic smile. "What you've been through would _kill _most people. The average person would lose their mind when faced with the kind of… of _horrific_…"

She let her words trail off, looking down for a moment and shaking her head before meeting his eyes again. Her voice was soft and solemn as she concluded her argument.

"You are so much stronger than the average person, House. So much stronger than you give yourself credit for. But… but that doesn't mean that even _you_ can get through this alone. You _have_ to _talk_ to someone."

House refused to meet her eyes, swallowing hard, biting down on his lower lip to keep it from shaking as he turned his head away. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hushed, betraying a slight tremor of lost confusion that made Cuddy's chest ache to hear it.

"I… I _can't_."

She raised a hand to his cheek, a troubled, puzzled look on her face as she studied his expression. "House," she began cautiously, her voice soft and reassuring, "you've already told me and Wilson… and Jenna… and Detective Benson. I know it's not easy to talk about it, but… you _did_, in order to save your own life. How is it so much harder to talk about it to save your _mental_ health?"

"This is different," he insisted, his voice low and trembling dangerously. "This isn't… telling Wilson what happened so he won't get himself killed trying to figure it out. This isn't telling a cop what happened so Tritter can be arrested. This is… it's just… it's different."

Despite the vague, rambling nature of his response, at last, Cuddy understood.

Talking about the technical facts of what had happened was hard enough for House, but talking to a therapist would mean talking about more than that. It would require House to not only tell his story, but to also tell someone about the effect the rape had had on him… how he _felt_ about it.

Cuddy was fairly certain that during the last few weeks, House had exhausted his vulnerability quote for the rest of his life.

"I'm fine," House insisted quietly, awkwardly pulling away from her supportive hands. When she gave him a dubious look, he amended in a halting, uncertain voice that quivered with the tears he was forcing back. "I'm… _going_ to be… fine. I don't need to… to talk to anyone, okay? I'll… get over it."

Cuddy cringed at his weak protest, utterly unconvincing… but yielded to it.

_For now, anyway; he's not ready. He may _never_ be ready. But if he doesn't find a way to deal with this…_

At that moment, the doorbell rang, mercifully pulling Cuddy from her troubling thoughts. House flinched at the sound, eyes darting to the door with dread. He tensed as she approached the door, taking an unconscious step backward.

"It's okay," Cuddy announced quickly after looking through the peep hole. "It's just Jenna."

House visibly relaxed, letting out a shaky breath, and made his way on unsteady legs toward the sofa. He sank down onto it, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of the sofa, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat. Cuddy frowned, worried, as she opened the door for Jenna.

House was clearly not dealing with this anywhere near as well as he wanted her to think.

Too thrilled and excited to notice the tension in the room, Jenna was bouncing on her heels as she looked from Cuddy to House, waiting for both of them to look at her before she explained the reason for her visit.

"I just… had to tell you guys in person," she began, her voice trembling with elated anticipation. "I had to see the looks on your faces when I told you… Tritter's in jail. He was arrested. They issued a warrant this afternoon, and took him into custody at his house thirty minutes ago…"

"That's wonderful!" Elated, Cuddy embraced Jenna in a spontaneous hug, laughing with relief and happiness. She pulled back, turning toward House with a beaming smile. "Isn't that great?"

Both women froze as they gradually took in House's unexpected reaction.

He was sitting up on the edge of the couch, eyes impossibly wide, staring at Jenna, as if barely able to comprehend what she had just said. He shook his head slightly at first, as if in disbelief, and Cuddy could clearly see hope and relief warring with fear and uncertainty in his eyes.

He had been afraid for so long, it was hard to accept that he was finally safe.

Cuddy slowly, cautiously approached him, as if she was afraid if she moved too quickly, he might bolt like a frightened animal. Reaching him, she knelt carefully in front of him, resting her hands gently on his knees.

Only when she touched him did House finally look away from Jenna, staring down at Cuddy with an almost puzzled look that told her he hadn't even realized she had moved. His shoulders were shaking slightly, and the fragile control he had maintained throughout their conversation seemed on the verge of shattering completely.

Cuddy thought it might be a good thing if it did.

She reached her free hand up to run through his hair, her hand on his knee squeezing gently. "This is for real, House. He's in jail. You're safe. You're really safe."

She could almost see the crumbling of his walls in House's eyes… relief and doubt and gratitude and disbelief all shattering upon impact with Jenna's monumental news. House drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, and Cuddy quickly rose from her knees to sit beside him on the sofa, just in time to catch him as he fell apart, collapsing against her, shaking hands clasping her waist as deep, racking sobs shook through him.

"Shhh," she soothed him, pressing a tender kiss to his temple as she held his head against her shoulder, blinded by her own tears as they filled her eyes and slid down her face. "It's all right. You're safe, House. Tritter can't hurt you anymore."


	45. Chapter 45

Wilson walked through the door of the apartment about thirty minutes after Jenna made her announcement. He was weary and nervous with anticipatory energy at the same time, eager for news of the expected warrant for Tritter's arrest – eager to be able to give House some kind of peace of mind, some sense of security.

Alarm filled him when he saw House on the sofa, his face buried against Cuddy's shoulder, his body shaking with desperate, unrestrained sobs. Alarm faded into elation, however, when Cuddy met his eyes over House's head with relief and joy in her own, an unspoken confirmation that what they had been hoping for, working for, had finally come to pass.

Wilson didn't even notice Jenna, seated in the chair across from the sofa, until she rose to her feet and approached him, anxiety and excitement mingled on her face.

"They got him," she informed him unnecessarily. "Tritter's in jail."

"_Yes_!" Wilson pumped his fist in the air, doing a little half-turn before facing Jenna again, embracing her in an impulsive attempt to release the exultant energy that filled him with the news. "_Yes_, that _bastard's_ going to prison where he belongs!"

Jenna laughed, a little nervously, returning his hug, before gently drawing back and facing him, biting her lip with apprehension in her eyes. Wilson frowned with confusion as she began to speak in a hesitant, almost fearful voice.

"There's… there's more, though." Jenna's tone was almost one of confession. "There's… something else I have to tell you." She glanced over her shoulder to meet Cuddy's eyes briefly, taking Wilson's hand and leading him further into the living room. "All of you. I just… wanted to wait until I could tell everyone at once."

An unsettled feeling came over Wilson as he sat down in the chair where Jenna had sat, leaving her standing before them with the air of a terrified student about to give a speech in front of her class. The tension she was giving off even got through to House, who raised his head from Cuddy's shoulder in a halting motion, red-rimmed eyes glancing uncertainly between her and Wilson.

"This… might be kind of alarming, at first," Jenna warned them with an apologetic grimace in House's direction. "It turns out… there was a… connection, to Tritter… that we weren't aware of before… but it's going to work in our favor, now, so everything's all right…"

"What kind of connection?" Wilson's eyes narrowed with suspicion as he took in her oddly guilty demeanor. "Jenna… what are you trying to say?"

"One of the men with Tritter that night… the one who stayed behind, and moved Dr. House's bike… he's come forward. He… named names, told Detective Benson the names of the other three, and all of them are in custody. He's going to… to testify about what happened that night – the part he witnessed, anyway – and that can only strengthen our case…"

"Okay… that's great…" Wilson cut her off with a raised, halting hand. "… but… you mentioned a connection? What's the connection, Jenna?"

Jenna hesitated, swallowing hard, unable to meet his eyes as she answered in a rush. "He's my brother. He didn't know what Tritter and the others were going to do, he thought they were just going to rough him up a little, he had no idea how far things were going to go…"

She was looking at House as she spoke, apparently desperate for some sort of absolution – but House was staring downward, a studied calm on his face as he slowly processed her words. As Jenna's voice trailed off, waiting for some response, House swallowed hard, his lips parting a few moments before any sound came out. Finally, he cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure as he spoke in a soft, restrained voice.

"Your brother. He's… in custody, too?"

"Yes," Jenna assured him, her voice gentler in response to his obvious fear. "Yes, he… gave himself up when he… when he saw the evidence."

"Right," Wilson said slowly, nodding with understanding. "Your brother's in forensics. That's why you felt safe to take the tape to him…"

"And he's one of them."

House's horrified whisper drew the attention of everyone in the room. Cuddy reached out a gentle hand to rest on his in reassurance, but he shook his head, visibly sick, his face pale and broken out in a cold sweat.

"He's one of them. He could have… What if he'd taken that tape to Tritter instead of turning himself in? What if he'd… _God_…"

"It's all right." Wilson spoke up, his voice calm and controlled as his eyes met the gaze of each person in the room in turn, finally falling on Jenna's face and softening with understanding. "He _didn't_. Everything turned out all right, and now we have another witness against Tritter. This is not a bad thing, House. This is good. This is… _better_, in fact."

House was quiet, focused on the floor at his feet as he crossed his arms over his torso in an instinctively defensive gesture. Around him, the others discussed the details of what had happened, and what was going to happen next, trying to be as positive as possible for House's benefit.

It wasn't hard.

It really looked as if, despite the alarming coincidence of Jenna's brother's involvement, everything was going to turn out for the best.

After a little while, noting the exhaustion on House's face and his wearily slumped posture on the sofa, Cuddy rose to her feet, announcing that she had to get home, because she had an early morning. Jenna followed suit, taking a couple of steps toward the door, pausing beside Wilson's chair and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. He met her eyes with a knowing, slightly troubled smile.

"I'll call you," he promised, raising a reassuring hand to rest over hers for a moment.

Jenna nodded with a grateful smile as she continued toward the door, followed closely by Cuddy.

"Hey, I don't have to sneak around anymore," she pointed out with a nervous laugh. "No more back door entrances and exits. Everything's out in the open, now."

House looked up abruptly, a trapped, startled expression on his face at her words. The others had barely managed to process what about Jenna's statement had upset him, before he rose to his feet and limped toward the bedroom without a word. Wilson couldn't help but notice that his limp was more pronounced than usual – most likely a physical manifestation of his fears surrounding the upcoming trial, and the exposure of his traumatic secret.

Worried, Cuddy took a step toward the bedroom door House had just emphatically shut.

Wilson placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "Don't worry," he assured her. "I've got it. You've done more than your fair share today already. Go on home."

Reluctantly, Cuddy conceded his point, and left House in his capable care.

Wilson knocked softly on the door, before sliding it open just enough to peer inside. House was pacing furiously back and forth, despite his obvious exhaustion. He glanced up at Wilson briefly before looking away again – but he did not tell Wilson to leave, and that was something. Wilson stepped cautiously into the room, closing the door behind him, despite the fact that they were alone in the apartment.

"I know what Jenna said was scary, House," he acknowledged quietly. "I know that things could have turned out very badly… but they _didn't_… and…"

"This is all going to become public knowledge, isn't it? Everyone's going to know."

Wilson blinked, meeting House's heavy, troubled stare as he processed the calm, quiet words, and realized that House's concerns of the moment were not what he had thought they were.

"Legally," Wilson answered at last in a slow, thoughtful voice, as he sat down on the edge of the bed, "your name can't be released. Tritter's arrest and charges will make the papers, sure… but the media can't print the identity of his victim. That isn't public information."

"It will be when I testify," House pointed out grimly, not meeting Wilson's eyes. "My team already knows that I was… what happened. Once they see Tritter's name in the paper, you think they won't put two and two together and come up with my complete and utter humiliation?"

Wilson knew better than to attempt a reassuring lie. He nodded with an apologetic grimace. "They _were_ trained by the best detective in Princeton _not_ actually on the police force."

"Great. Just great. They already know the _what_." House muttered, still pacing, though Wilson noticed with concern that his legs were shaking with the stress of the workout he was putting them through. "The _last_ thing I need is them figuring out the who and the why, too."

"House… it doesn't matter what you did to him," Wilson stated quietly, waiting until House met his eyes to go on with solemn, gentle understanding. "This was _not_ your fault."

Though there was no logical reason why House should feel more ashamed because his team knew who had assaulted him than he already felt because of their knowledge that he was assaulted at all, Wilson still knew why he did. Tritter had managed to instill a deep sense of shame in House over what had happened, a sense of guilt, a subconscious belief that he had brought it on himself.

On a subconscious level, House probably believed that if his team found out it was Tritter who had raped him, they would put the pieces together, and figure out that it was revenge for what House had done to him – that it was House's fault.

House looked away, blinking back unbidden tears, shaking his head in denial.

"I know," he whispered, and there was a guarded edge to his voice that warned Wilson away from pursuing the subject any farther.

"I just think… I think the best thing you can do right now is just… go to work… do your job… keep going as if everything is normal. If you let Tritter keep you down, even from his jail cell… then he's won. The best way to convince your team, and everyone else, that this isn't gossip-worthy… is to go on with life as usual."

House nodded slowly, considering his words and easily accepting them. "Right," he agreed softly. "That's the thing to do. Just keep going as usual. Keep them too busy to have time to think about my personal life which is none of their business."

_And keep _you_ too busy to think about all the things that keep tormenting you right now… keep you too busy to obsess over all the ways this could still go wrong…_

*******************************

Cuddy did her part in keeping House distracted, supplying him with a case immediately upon his arrival at work the next day. Determined to keep himself busy, House was at the top of his game, sharp and quick and amazing as usual as he guided his team toward the correct solution for his patient.

By noon, the patient was diagnosed and on her way to recovery.

Unfortunately, that left House with far too much time left in the day to do nothing but think. He was sitting at the table in the conference room, exactly where he had been when he had sent his team off to administer the correct treatment to their patient, when Cameron slipped back into the room twenty minutes later.

In another unfortunate happenstance, House's back was to the room, and he was too far lost in his own thoughts to notice her entrance until her hand was on his shoulder.

"House? Are you…?"

She never got to finish her statement, as House staggered to his feet more quickly than she would have thought possible, nearly falling over the table in his haste to spin around and face the source of the perceived threat. He raised his cane to strike in defense with a strangled, guttural cry of surprise and terror. His heart pounded in his chest, and he struggled to catch his breath, as Cameron took a startled step backward, holding up her hands in reassurance.

"I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was just… I just wanted to… I mean… I saw the paper, and I… just wanted to m-make sure you're all right… make sure you didn't need to… to talk, or…"

As House recovered from his initial panic, blind rage took the place of terror and its subsequent humiliation.

"Whether or not I'm _all right_ is none of your business!" he snarled at her as he righted himself. He was still a little breathless as he snapped, "If I'd wanted to _talk_ to someone, I'd have sought out someone I'd actually ever talk _to_! Keep your nose out of my private life, and get the hell out of my office!"

Hesitant, tentative, Cameron backed toward the door, even as she pointed out quietly, "We're not _in_ your…"

"Whatever!" House roared. "Get out!"

House stood there for a moment, still shaken and recovering, as Cameron turned and made a hasty retreat. His heart was still pounding, and he could feel panic pushing at the edges of his mind, trying to make its way in and overcome rational thought. He swallowed back the sick feeling of bile rising up in his throat, closing his eyes for a moment and fighting for control.

He needed a distraction… _now_.

On trembling legs, he made his way hurriedly toward the clinic. The irony was not lost on him, as he realized how much it had taken to convince him to willingly accept his assigned clinic duty. He met Cuddy's eyes through the glass walls of her office, giving her a curt nod as he made his way to the desk to sign in.

Good for nothing else, hypochondriacal patients, over-sensitive to their runny noses and light coughs; and idiots who chose to self-treat and wait until they were unwittingly on the verge of death before coming to an actual doctor, _were_ apparently good for one thing, after all.

A temporary distraction.

House was relieved as he felt his heart rate and breathing return to normal, and felt the panic ebbing again, as he lost himself in the never-ending line of mundane patients and their unbearably common needs. No one else working in the clinic knew what had happened to him; even those who might have read the paper that morning and recognized Tritter's name had no reason to connect the story with House.

House managed to go three whole hours without thinking of Tritter or the surrounding situation for more than a few minutes.

The impressive streak came to an end when he was directed to an exam room by a nurse who told him that the patient had requested to see him, and only him. He tried to brush her off, but the nurse insisted that the patient said Dr. Wilson had told her that if she came today, she'd be able to see him. Suspicious, but unafraid, House took the chart from the bin outside the door as he opened it – and froze just inside the doorway, staring at the young woman seated on the table as if she were a ghost.

"I… I don't know if you remember me, Dr. House," she said in a voice that was uncertain, but steady and strong as it had not been when last he had seen her. "I saw you a couple of months ago. There wasn't much you could do for me, medically, but you took several hours out of your day… just to talk to me… and that meant so much. I just… couldn't imagine coming in here today for this follow up, and… and talking to anyone else besides you. I'm… not sure if you remember me… I… I was raped…"

"Of course I remember you," House interrupted quietly, his eyes locked onto hers with a new depth of recognition, as he saw in her eyes a dark knowledge and unwelcome wisdom that he now felt within himself. "Hello, Eve."


	46. Chapter 46

"Why are you here?"

House's voice was defensive and suspicious, bordering on hostile, as he stared at the young woman seated on the edge of the examination table, idly swinging her legs over the side. She flinched slightly, stunned by his reaction, looking at him more closely as he took a slow, backward step against the closed exam room door.

"I just… came in for a follow up. Dr. Wilson said it was okay. Hey… are you all right?" There was concern in her voice as her eyes narrowed in scrutiny, her head tilted slightly in confusion.

"What exactly did Wilson tell you?" House demanded, pale fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to control his reaction to the shock of seeing Eve again.

As far as he was concerned, Wilson's involvement in bringing this particular patient to the hospital at this time could only mean one thing – yet another misguided attempt by his best friend to "help" him, which would unfortunately only result in further humiliation.

Eve frowned, troubled and apparently baffled by House's suspicion. "Just that you weren't feeling well yesterday and that's why you weren't in, and… to come back today if I wanted to see _you_ for my follow-up." She rose from the table, biting her lip uncertainly. "I… I can go, if…"

"No, you… don't have to go," House sighed a little shakily, relieved that Eve didn't seem to know anything about the recent events in his life, but already mentally preparing the method by which he was going to murder Wilson when next he saw him, for interfering at all. "But I can't see you today. I'll go get someone else for you…"

"No, that's okay. I can come back," Eve objected in a quiet, disappointed voice.

"No. I won't be able to see you then, either."

House bluntly shut her down, reaching behind him for the door to open it. Unfortunately, his hand was trembling too badly to grasp the handle, and he turned toward it, fumbling in his shaken state.

Eve only meant to help when she stepped forward and reached for the door, but House flinched violently away from her, staggering a step backward against the wall beside the door. He glanced up at her through wide eyes, slightly wild with barely bridled panic – and Eve froze where she stood, drawing in a sharp, stunned breath.

House felt his face flush with shame as he realized – she _knew_.

A sense of dark irony filled his mind, as he remembered his own instantaneous recognition of what had happened to her, when he'd first met her, and she'd flinched away from his touch.

Eve had the added advantage – if it could be called an advantage – of _firsthand_ knowledge of what sort of trauma might cause such a response.

Something in House's eyes, in his reaction, called out to the same dark knowledge that had been forcibly placed within her. She clearly recognized the fear, the traumatized reaction to a simple touch, and her expression softened with sympathy, her eyes welling with compassionate tears.

"Oh, no." she whispered, the words barely over a breath. "What… what happened?"

House's jaw clenched with stubborn refusal, his voice low, grinding out his words as he lowered his gaze and side-stepped further away from her.

"I don't want to talk to you."

A moment's awkward, tense silence followed, as Eve bit her lip uncertainly, clearly trying to decide which course of action to take. Finally, she made her decision.

"Okay." Eve shrugged, her voice soft and subdued. "You don't have to talk to me. But…" She hesitated a moment before continuing. "… can _I_ talk to _you_?" Met with House's puzzled look of confusion, she quietly explained with a self-conscious shrug. "It's just… when you talked to me before… it… it meant so much, and… and I really don't want to… to talk to anyone else now." Her voice softened further as she added, "_Please_?"

House wanted nothing more than to turn and walk out the door, away from the conversation he knew would hit far too close to home for his comfort. Still, the vulnerability and need he saw in Eve's eyes would not allow him to refuse her such a simple request.

Reluctantly, without a word, he moved across the room to the exam table, pulling himself slowly up onto it and giving her a resigned, expectant look. Eve gave him a relieved, shaky little smile as she came and sat down beside him, leaving about a foot of space between them. She was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts, before finally speaking again.

"I'm doing a lot better now," she informed him with a smile. "After I told you about… what happened… I decided to take a couple of weeks off from school. I went home, and I… I told my parents what happened. They made an appointment for me with this therapist, and… and she's actually really good. She's… she's helped me a lot. They caught the guy who…" Eve drew in a deep breath, meeting House's wary eyes as she continued with deliberate firmness, as if forcing herself to face the dark power of the word, "… who _raped_ me. His trial's already over; I testified against him, and he was convicted and sentenced to eight years."

Those words seemed to break through House's self-imposed state of deliberate non-reaction. He nodded, eyebrows raised to indicate that he was both surprised and impressed.

"That's… that's great. For you." He hesitated before adding softly, "You're a very brave girl."

Eve shrugged slightly, looking away, biting her lip again as her eyes darkened with a troubled expression. "Sometimes I am," she amended quietly. "Sometimes… not so much. Sometimes… I still wake up screaming. When one of my friends – or my father – or even my own _mother_ touches me… there's almost always a second there when for one panicked moment… I think that it's _him_."

House winced slightly at her words, to which he could relate so much more fully than he could when last they'd met. He knew the feelings she was describing with agonizing intimacy… and he knew that _she _knew that he knew them.

Eve continued talking about the events of the past couple of months of her life, talking about her family, her recovery – and House found himself gradually relaxing under the influence of her surprisingly calm, strong voice, and the reassuring story it told. Although she admittedly still had some distance to go down the path to recovery, she had clearly come a long way in the brief months since House had seen her.

_And if_ she _can survive… get through this… then maybe…_ maybe…

When Eve was finished telling her story, an awkward moment of silence descended upon them, before she finally ventured to call attention to the obvious elephant in the room.

"When… when did it happen? To you?"

House didn't bother to lie, knowing that she instinctively knew the truth, and would not be deceived by any weak efforts he might make to conceal it.

"A couple of weeks ago."

He was quiet for a long moment, swallowing hard before he continued in a low, carefully even voice. "I'm sorry. About before. I… I've thought about you, since… since it happened. Thought about… what an idiotic ass I was, and how pitifully I handled your situation. I… didn't know what to say to you, and consequently, I… said a lot of stupid things. I'm sorry I… I didn't help you more."

"But… you _did_ help me." Eve shook her head in wondering bemusement as she reached out to cautiously take his hand, smiling when he looked up at her in surprise. "You told me… back then… that you didn't think talking about it really… really helped much." She paused, then added firmly, "You were wrong. It does. It helped a lot. You don't know how much it helped me, just for you to stick around and… and listen."

"Huh." House looked away, swallowing hard. "Hasn't helped _me_. Everyone keeps pushing me to… to talk about it, but… it hasn't helped. All it does is make me… remember it more vividly. I was just… walking through the parking garage, to my bike… thinking… thinking everything was okay, just another night… and then…" He shook his head, lowering his eyes, lowering his voice as it began to tremble. "I keep thinking… there must have been some kind of… danger sign I missed… some mistake I made that let them… let them catch me…"

Eve winced slightly at the use of the plural pronoun and the horrific reality it implied, but she didn't allow her reaction to show in her voice, as House continued in a halting voice, recounting more of the details of his story than she ever would have expected. It seemed that, despite his statement about the uselessness of talking about it, once House began to tell his story, a floodgate was opened which he couldn't seem to close until it had all been told.

Eve waited until he was finished to reply in a slow, gentle voice. "I'm just going to tell you the same thing you told me. It's not your fault. It doesn't say anything bad about you because it happened. You didn't do anything wrong to cause this to happen to you…"

"I know that."

Eve gave him a knowing nod, squeezing his hand with gentle understanding in her voice. "You do," she conceded. "And you don't."

House let out a weary sigh of defeat as he admitted, "I just… can't stop wondering if… if maybe I'd moved a little faster… been a little more careful, or… or fought a little harder." He hesitated, a slight tremble in his lower lip betraying how near he was to the tears he was so valiantly repressing, before concluding in a hoarse whisper.

"Or maybe just… not pissed the guy off in the first place."

"Hey. Look at me." Eve turned further toward him so that she was almost completely facing him, waiting until he reluctantly met her gaze through tear-filled eyes before stating her words in a clear, unyielding tone. "It _wasn't_… your _fault_. _Nothing_ you could have done gave that creep the right to touch you."

"I know."

House and Eve exchanged a knowing look at the repetitive circle their conversation seemed to have made – and then an unexpected laugh at the irony of it. The laughter didn't last, however, and House looked up to meet her eyes with a solemn, apprehensive gaze.

"Are you… are you still… scared, all the time?" he asked in a hushed, hesitant voice. "Do you still think… sometimes… he's going to find you, somehow? That it all could happen again, when you least expect it?"

Eve nodded sympathetically. "All the time."

House looked down again, shaking his head. "I… I'm not sure I'll ever get over this."

"You won't."

House blinked, considering her blunt words, spoken with such gentleness, before accepting them with a slow nod and a sigh of resignation. He was quiet for a moment before continuing.

"Not completely," Eve amended her statement with a slight shrug. "I mean… it'll get better… but… it's not something you ever forget. It's always… a part of you… from now on, you know? Some things… some people… help, but…" Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head almost apologetically.

"Everyone's trying so hard to help," House sighed. "They're _not_ helping, though. Not as much as they'd like to be. Not as much as… as I need. They try to… say and do the right things, but… they don't know how. Half the time they end up making me feel worse instead of better, because… it's awkward, and I'm a… a burden… and there's no way in hell they can actually understand."

"_I_ understand."

The barest trace of a smile touched House's lips as he met her eyes. "I know you do," he said softly. "That's why I'm… why I'm telling you all this, I guess." Another quiet moment passed between them, before House told her quietly, "The man who… who instigated… the attack – he was arrested. Yesterday."

"That's great!" Eve sounded genuinely happy for him, a smile forming on her full lips. "That was the only way I was able to… to find some… closure, I guess you'd say. It's so important just to know that he's _gone_ – put away for good. It was scary, but… testifying against him… knowing that I helped make sure he could never hurt me or anyone else again for a long time… it was the most empowering thing I've ever done."

"I'm… not sure I can do that," House admitted softly, eyes downcast. "I don't know if I can… can testify. Face him in open court. Have him… watching me, while I tell that roomful of people what… what he did." He shook his head, swallowing hard, despair in his voice. "Maybe I should have just… kept my mouth shut. He would have gotten tired of his… his games, eventually. Maybe if I just left it alone…"

"Let me quote another wonderful pearl of wisdom I got from the amazing doctor who saw me last time I was here," Even interrupted, a gently teasing sparkle in her eyes. "'Doing things changes things. Not doing things leaves things exactly as they are.' You can't do nothing and expect it to go away, because it won't. Until you stand up against him – you're always going to be afraid."

House nodded slowly, taking in her words and accepting their truth, though finding the emotional fortitude to act on them was an entirely different matter, and far more difficult. The only thing he knew to do was to change the subject.

"My friends… want me to… to see a therapist." He scoffed softly, shaking his head in denial. "Like _that's_ ever going to happen. Yes, that's exactly what I want to do – tell a perfect stranger all about the worst, most traumatic experience of my entire life."

"Isn't that… pretty much what you just did?"

House couldn't suppress a quiet laugh as he nodded, conceding her point. "A complete stranger that I know has been there, though. That's different."

"Well… maybe one day you'll feel differently, and… be able to talk to a professional. Trust me, it really does help," Eve replied. Then, her light tone changed to something more solemn, as she added, "But until then… you can talk to _me_. Anytime. Really." She shrugged slightly when he gave her a look of dubious surprise. Her voice was soft when she explained. "I... sort of owe you."

House nodded, a grateful smile on his lips, though he was quite certain he would never contact Eve again after this conversation.

"You know," Eve observed thoughtfully, "when we talked before… I was looking for a reason. I was… wondering why this happened to me." She looked up to meet his eyes for a long moment before concluding, "I think maybe… maybe now… I know."


	47. Chapter 47

Wilson reached out a gentle hand to rest momentarily on House's left knee, subtly stilling the anxious tapping of his foot, and House looked up at him sharply, startled by the unexpected touch. He raised a questioning eyebrow in Wilson's direction, glancing pointedly down at Wilson's hand, and the younger man removed it with a self-conscious clearing of his throat.

"There's no need to be nervous, House. You're perfectly safe…"

"I'm not nervous," House snapped, cutting him off and looking away, almost petulantly resuming the nervous, tapping gesture Wilson had halted.

Wilson didn't argue, but, concerned, he watched his friend out of the corner of his eyes, as they waited for the woman with whom they were here to meet. House's entire body was taut with tension, his arms crossed defensively over his chest, his foot once again tapping out a rapid-fire staccato on the tile as he glanced impatiently toward the door again.

No, House wasn't nervous.

After all, there was no reason to be nervous, not anymore. Tritter and the others had been arrested, and he was perfectly safe – here in the Princeton County Courthouse, surrounded by cops in every direction he looked. There was no reason why he should feel ill at ease or afraid about the interview that was about to take place.

_Unless you consider the fact that it was a group of cops who hurt him in the first place, and the dozens of officers that would make anyone else feel safer probably just look like a threat to him._

Wilson frowned slightly, taking in House's pale skin and the tiny beads of moisture along his hairline that further betrayed his anxiety.

_And the fact that he's about to tell his most humiliating, devastating experience to _yet another _stranger, when he's probably not completely convinced that he's not going to eventually get murdered in his sleep, or worse, for doing so. Hell, _I'm_ not even convinced of that yet… but it's the only choice._

_Come forward… or live in fear of Tritter for the rest of his life._

_Not really a difficult choice, when you think about it._

The office door opened, and House jumped a mile, rising swiftly to his feet and spinning to face the door. Wilson rose with him, attempting to cover House's reaction as he stepped toward the tall woman who had entered the room, extending his hand to shake hers as she introduced herself.

"Brooke Landers, Assistant D.A. Dr. Wilson, I presume?" Wilson nodded, and she turned her hand and her attention to House. "And Dr. House. Very pleased to meet you, though I wish it might have been under different circumstances."

House glanced down at her hand, then nodded toward his cane with an impatient look, indicating his inability to accept her extended hand. Wilson had seen House do much the same thing to others on many occasions, and it usually put people on the defensive, made them feel self-conscious and embarrassed for their perceived mistake.

To her credit, Brooke did not seem at all bothered by the exchange, simply nodding her understanding and withdrawing her hand as she took her seat behind her desk. "Please, have a seat, and I'll bring you up to speed on the case… where things go from here."

Wilson noted with relief that, if she _had_ noticed House's reaction to her entrance, Ms. Landers did an excellent job of hiding the fact. She waited until they both were seated before speaking again, her voice calm and even, but barely concealing a note of anticipation, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.

"You should know, this office has had its suspicions about Michael Tritter for years now, but there's never been anything solid – nothing we could actually make stick – until now," Brooke explained with a slight smile. "We have a very strong case against him. He's been charged with first degree rape, kidnapping, and aggravated sexual assault with special circumstances on all three charges. The kidnapping alone carries a possible life sentence automatically, and the special circumstances on the other charges make it possible for him to get life for them as well. We'll be putting him away for a _very_ long time."

"Good." Wilson nodded with relief and satisfaction. "That's great."

House's voice was quiet, restrained, as he met her eyes and asked softly, "And the others?"

"Same charges, with the exception of the special circumstances. Tritter was the one who instigated the attack, and he used a weapon, whereas the others didn't," Brooke explained. "Still, life imprisonment is a possibility for them as well – and once a jury hears your story, Dr. House – I can't think of a judge in his right mind who wouldn't throw the book at these animals."

"What about… the one who's testifying for the prosecution?" House hesitantly asked, biting the side of his lip uncertainly. "Andrew Leander. What's _he_ been charged with?"

"Conspiracy to commit assault and unlawful imprisonment, and evidence tampering." Brooke's smile faded as she visibly tried to gauge House's reaction to her words. "He's been offered a deal in exchange for his testimony – probation and fines, but no prison time." She paused a moment, holding House's gaze as she added, "But the deal's off the table, if you don't like it. We don't need his testimony – not when we have _yours_. Without the deal, he could get as much as fifteen years…"

"The deal's fine." House's voice was barely over a whisper, and he looked away as he spoke, shaking his head slightly. "No problem with that. Sounds like the kid… didn't… didn't have any idea what he was getting into, or… or what was going to happen. But…" He hesitated, looking up to meet her eyes again with a solemn, piercing gaze. "… no deals for any of the others. _Please_. Don't give them the chance to… to…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head again, swallowing hard.

"Of course not," Brooke assured him, her voice softening with understanding. "There will be no deals offered to any of the men directly involved in the attack. We don't need their testimonies. We don't even _need_ Leander's testimony – not when we have yours," she repeated, her voice slowing at the end of the statement, taking on a leading tone as she raised an eyebrow in silent question.

House let out a heavy sigh of resignation. "So… that's absolutely necessary, then. My… my testimony."

Wilson gave him a startled look, glancing between House and Ms. Landers as he realized that she had caught onto House's hesitation when he had failed to notice it. It hadn't occurred to him before this meeting that House might try to back out of actually giving his testimony. Yes, it was terrifying, and potentially humiliating and traumatic – but it was _necessary_.

_Surely House _has_ to see that…_

Brooke was quiet and thoughtful over her response, before meeting House's eyes with an apologetic nod and grimace. "It really is. It's possible that we'd get a conviction without your testimony, Dr. House. But… there's no guarantee. The video alone isn't really enough, because technically – you're not _on_ that video. It could be _anyone_ he's talking to – he could be playing a part in some amateur video, or role-playing or something."

At House's dubious look, she shrugged. "I know, highly unlikely – but possible. What I'm saying is, your _testimony_ confirms the identity of the person he's threatening in the video. Evidence is great – and we've got a lot of it – but your _testimony_ is what's going to convince the jury of what a disgusting, vile, dangerous piece of scum Michael Tritter is, and that he deserves to spend the rest of his natural life locked away from society where he can't do anymore damage."

House considered her words for a moment before nodding slowly, head lowered in resignation.

"Right," he sighed. "Got that. I just… I'm gonna _do_ it, I just… wondered…"

Sensing House's embarrassment over his reluctance to testify, Wilson quickly moved to change the subject.

"What exactly is the evidence that we've got?" he asked. "Can you run through that for us?"

Brooke smiled with an encouraging nod. "Well, besides Dr. House's testimony, we've also got Andrew Leander's testimony of the events of the kidnapping, and the testimonies of you and Ms. Leander about what you saw and heard the night of the video recording, as well as the video itself. We have the clothing and… and other items you saved, Dr. Wilson. Once we get the results of the DNA tests back, we'll have evidence against the others who attacked Dr. House, if not against Tritter himself…"

"No," House broke in grimly, shaking his head. "There won't be anything against Tritter. He was very… very _careful_…"

"You might be surprised," Brooke countered with a little half-shrug. "Sometimes the slightest trace can be enough. If they find _anything_ – a hair, trace fluids – it could be enough." She paused, glancing between them with eager anticipation in her eyes as she added, "Besides, we may not have _his_ DNA, but we have _yours_ – found in his possession."

House frowned, puzzled. "How…?"

"They found a knife," Brooke explained, her expression sobering at House's visible flinch. "The smug bastard was actually carrying it on him when he was arrested. It was stained with blood, and we took it into evidence – and it matches the DNA sample you gave us, Dr. House. You would think he'd be smarter than to keep it like that… but it's a good thing he did."

"It's a trophy."

Wilson and Ms. Landers both were silent, and House dropped his gaze with a self-conscious swallow.

"Like… like serial killers, and… other sociopathic personalities. He wanted a… a permanent reminder." House nearly gagged on the words, swallowing back the wave of sickness that rolled up into his throat, closing his eyes and struggling to fight against the horror of his own conclusions. "He wanted to be able to look at that knife and… and remember… anytime he wanted…"

Shocked, horrified silence followed his words, though the truth of them was no surprise to either of his listeners. Both had heard of such behavior many times before, but the matter-of-fact way in which House spoke about it was sobering. Finally, Wilson cleared his throat, waiting until House looked at him to speak in a quiet voice that trembled with repressed rage.

"Well, he'll remember, all right. Every time his cell mate wakes him up in the middle of the night because he's feeling a little bit affectionate – Tritter will get all the reminiscing he can _stand_!"

House gave him a weak but appreciative smile, meeting his gaze for just a moment before looking toward Brooke again through lowered eyes. "What about… the guy he killed? Have you found anything on that yet?"

Brooke shook her head with a sigh. "No, I'm sorry. Not yet. And without a body, or even a solid identification of the victim, we can't really make a murder charge stick. But when it turns up – and it eventually will – we can add that to the list of offenses standing between Tritter, and the possibility of _ever_ seeing the outside world again."

Wilson caught the slight tremor of emotion in her voice that hadn't been there before, and knew that House's struggle against his own emotions was responsible. After seeing the emotional wreckage that had been left of Tritter's latest victim, Brooke Landers was clearly very eager to see Tritter locked away for good.

"At the arraignment tomorrow," she continued, "he'll just enter his plea – not guilty, obviously…" She rolled her eyes. "… and bail will be discussed."

"There's… there's a chance he could get out on bail."

House's wide blue eyes snapped upward to lock onto hers, sudden panic building on his face. It was a statement, not a question, but filled with a note of stunned wonder that suggested the troubling but rather obvious concept had just occurred to him for the first time.

Wilson reached out a hand to rest on House's knee in silent support, and House irritably shook it off, focused completely on Brooke, and her answer.

"There's… technically a chance," she conceded cautiously, meeting his eyes with a firm promise in her own. "But I'm not going to let that happen. I'll make sure they know the kind of danger he presents if he's allowed to walk free between now and the trial date, and they _won't _grant him bail." She took a deep breath, a tight grimace twisting her mouth as she continued grimly.

"But… if they _do_…"

House swore quietly, turning his head away and shaking it in denial of the fears that were rapidly spinning out of control in his mind, driving him toward panic.

"No," he muttered, resting his head in his hands. "No, that can't happen…"

"If it does, I'll make sure you have a protective police detail between now and the trial. You'll be safe…"

"Safe?" House echoed, glaring at her in angry disbelief as he rose abruptly to his feet. "A freaking police escort is supposed to make me feel _safe_? Have you forgotten who the hell it was who _did_ this to me?"

Wilson rose with him, reaching out a hand to try to calm him, but House angrily jerked away from him, storming toward the door.

"We're done here, aren't we?" he snapped at Brooke. "Because if you're finished tossing your placating, meaningless promises of protection at me like a bone to a starving dog, I think I need to find a place to _vomit_."

A troubled expression on her face, Brooke nodded, catching Wilson's eye momentarily to silently confirm that they had discussed all they needed to for the moment.

"Dr. House… I need you to know that I'm doing my best for you on this case. I want to see this man locked away where he can't ever hurt you or anyone else again – and I'm doing my best to see that that happens."

House stopped at the door, his shoulders sagging slightly as he relented, turning back halfway toward her. "I know," he said quietly. He paused a moment, weighing his words before adding bluntly, "I'm just afraid your best won't be good enough."

Brooke took that in, nodding slowly in acknowledgement. After a moment, she replied simply.

"I hope you're wrong."

"Me, too," House sighed as he opened the door and stepped out into the hall, leaving Wilson trailing behind and struggling to keep up with his limping friend as he made his way outside to the car.


	48. Chapter 48

The courtroom was filled with the muted hum of a dozen quiet conversations, as news reporters, legal officials, and curious observers discussed the incredibly scandalous and newsworthy case that was about to commence. In the midst of the hushed excitement and activity, a small group sat quietly, near the middle of the room – not too close to the group of nosy reporters and photographers in the back, or too close to the front of the room, where the defendant would be.

House sat in the middle of the aisle, Cuddy on one side, Wilson on the other. Jenna was there, too, seated at Wilson's other side, her hand loosely held in his. Cuddy's hand rested on House's as well, but for a very different purpose. She was simply trying to help hold him together.

House was clearly terrified.

His entire body was taut with tension, his fists clenched tightly on his knees. His eyes were focused downward, studiously avoiding contact with those of anyone else in the room. Tritter was not there yet, but House knew that he was going to be, any moment, and the thought of facing the man again was on the edge of being entirely more than he could bear.

"You know," Cuddy whispered, keeping her voice below the hearing of anyone besides House. "Brooke said you don't have to be here for this…"

"Yes, I do," House stated, quietly grinding out the words with emphatic determination. "If I can't face him _now_… when all I have to do is sit here and _not_ freak out and lose my mind… how am I going to face him from the witness stand?"

Cuddy was silent, aware that he had a valid point. As difficult as it was for House to face this, it would serve as a way to test the waters – to get used to the idea of the even more difficult confrontation that the trial would be.

"Just remember that he can't touch you here," she whispered. "You're in a courtroom full of witnesses, surrounded by armed guards… completely safe."

House nodded, a little impatient with the continued reassurances. Although he took a certain measure of comfort from them, it frustrated him that he needed to hear them. Still, he unclenched one fist with an effort, turning his hand under Cuddy's to grasp it almost desperately, as he tentatively glanced up to meet her eyes with a weak but grateful smile.

When the doors at the side of the courtroom opened, and a couple of officers walked through, House's gaze immediately dropped to his lap again. He swallowed hard, drawing in a sharp, shaky breath – sensing Tritter's presence, though he couldn't bring himself to watch him enter.

House's friends immediately responded to his quiet but obvious reaction. Cuddy's hand tightened on his, a silent reminder of her support. Wilson didn't touch him, but he murmured words of quiet reassurance.

"Steady… he's in cuffs… he can't come near you…"

"All rise. The Honorable Judge Barbara Steinum presiding."

The bailiff's monotone resounded through the courtroom, putting an end to the embarrassing necessity of their reassurances, and House rose to his feet on trembling legs, still keeping his eyes downcast, not daring to look up at where his rapist stood, just a few short yards in front of him.

Sick little shivers of revulsion and terror crawled over House's skin, and he crossed his arms over his chest, struggling to control his own physical reaction to Tritter's nearness. He closed his eyes, but his mind filled with horrifying images of Tritter's sneering face, inches from his own. He could almost feel the heavy, invasive hands of the larger man as they roamed over his body with soft brutality.

_No, no, _no_… I can't… can't do this… no…_

He opened his eyes wide, breathing as slowly and deeply as possible to keep from hyperventilating with panic.

"In the case of the state of New Jersey versus Michael Tritter," Judge Steinum stated clearly, mercifully drawing House's attention from the torment of his memories. "Mr. Tritter is charged with first degree rape, kidnapping, and aggravated sexual assault, with a stipulation of special circumstances added to each charge. In respect to these charges, Mr. Tritter, how do you plead?"

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

A shudder passed through House's shoulders at the sound of Tritter's low, calm voice, tinged with a hint of mockery that House couldn't help but believe was aimed at him. He heard quiet, smug certainty in Tritter's voice, knew implicitly that Tritter believed without question that he would be acquitted – and have the chance to make House pay for the fact that he was on trial at all.

_No… please, no…_

"Not guilty," Wilson echoed in an angry, muttering whisper. "Lying bastard."

"It's all right," Cuddy whispered, sliding an arm down around House's waist and shifting closer to him. "It's all right…"

"On the subject of bail," the judge continued, unaware of the silent exchange taking place near the back of the room. "I'll hear the advice of counsel at this time. Ms. Landers?"

Brooke rose and faced the judge with confidence and surety. "Your Honor, the state requests that bail be denied, in consideration of the heinous nature of the crimes in question. If Mr. Tritter is indeed guilty, then there is every certainty that, if freed, he would present a serious danger to his alleged victim, and others. The state holds that he should remain in custody until such time as he is brought to trial."

Judge Steinum considered for a moment, nodding thoughtfully before turning toward the defense.

"Mr. Green? Your advice?"

Tritter's defense attorney rose to his feet.

"Your Honor, the position of the state is reprehensible, given my client's solid reputation in the community, and his stellar history of public service. He has an established life and career in this city, and he is not a flight risk of any kind. He's a reputable detective on the Princeton police force, with over fifteen years of devoted service. To make such a man spend any additional time incarcerated, when he has been found guilty of no crime, would be unconscionable. The defense requests that a reasonable bond be set, within the ability of my client to meet it."

House shook his head, eyes closed, whispering an urgent, breathless chant, "… no, no, no…" – not really aware that he was doing either.

He held his breath when the judge began to speak, clinging to every word with quiet desperation.

"I understand the case made by the state, and their interest in ensuring the safety of the victim in this matter. If Mr. Tritter is indeed guilty of these crimes, then it is in the best interest of his victims to keep him incarcerated. However, if he is _not_ guilty, it is not fair to him to keep him imprisoned, when I agree with the defense that he is by no means a flight risk. There are two sets of rights to be considered in this matter, and the American justice system is designed to protect the rights of the accused, in order to prevent the miscarriage of justice…"

House's stomach sank with her words, his heart lurching within him, and he thought for a moment that he would be physically sick.

_She's going to let him go… she's going to grant him bail, and there'll never _be_ a trial. He'll kill us all first… God, _no… please_, no…_

"However," Judge Steinum continued, "it would be a greater miscarriage of justice if the victim in this case were to be further victimized because this court failed to protect him from his alleged attacker. Therefore I must choose what is hopefully the lesser of two potential evils. In the interest of the safety of the victim, and due to the heinous nature of the alleged crimes, bail is denied. The defendant will remain in custody until the conclusion of his trial."

House let out the breath he was holding in a shuddering gasp, relief overwhelming him, as the judge continued speaking. She set the trial date for two weeks from that day, and continued giving technical details to the counsel for both sides – but House barely heard a word of it. His shoulders shook with the release of the tension of his uncertainty and anticipation, and Cuddy wrapped her arms around him, instinctively drawing him into a reassuring embrace.

House pulled away slightly, accepting her comfort, but not completely, as he finally ventured a glance up toward the front of the courtroom. The judge had just dismissed the proceedings, and Tritter was being led from the room by two armed guards, his hands shackled in front of him and his feet shackled together, leaving him barely enough room to walk.

Helpless.

Harmless.

And yet, when Tritter glanced in his direction and caught his eyes with a cold, knowing smile of menace – he was still the most terrifying thing in House's universe. House froze completely, feeling as if all the oxygen had been sucked from his body. His heart raced with panic, his body breaking out in a cold sweat, as Tritter shook his head slightly in a barely perceptible expression of disgust and derision.

Remembered threats filled House's mind.

_You tell _anyone_… you open your mouth even _once_… you're dead, House… you and everyone you care about. You'll never live long enough to see me in prison, House... I'll kill you before I'll let that happen… and I'll take my time about it…_

He began to shake, lowering his head and fighting back the despairing sob that rose in his aching chest, as a cold, terrifying certainty filled him.

_This isn't over… this isn't even _close_ to over. We haven't won, not yet… maybe not at all…_

Wilson had not missed the brief, silent exchange between House and Tritter, and he rose to his feet in seething fury. "Monster," he hissed through his teeth. "I just cannot express how very much I want to _kill_ that guy!"

_Not if he kills you first… Oh, God, what have I done?_

"House, he's just trying to keep playing his mind games with you, but he can't touch you, you have to remember that. He's locked up where he can't do any damage anymore," Cuddy reminded him.

"For now," House pointed out. "What if he isn't convicted? Even before that, he's got friends… he's got connections, and we have no idea what they're capable of…"

"But we soon will."

House and his friends all looked up, somewhat startled to hear Brooke's voice as she stopped to stand beside them. House rose awkwardly to his feet, as Cuddy stood beside him and extended a hand to Brooke in greeting.

"Thanks to this case, Internal Affairs is opening a full force investigation of the Princeton police force," Brook explained with an encouraging smile. "We know of at least three officers on the force who were involved in corrupt activities, and there are very likely more, so we're looking into the histories of every single police employee to see what we can uncover." She paused, giving House a chance to take that in, before continuing in a slow, earnest voice of gratitude.

"Because of _you_, Dr. House – the Princeton police force is going to be a much cleaner, more honest organization. Things are going to be set right, and they wouldn't have been if you hadn't had the courage to step forward."

Uncomfortable with her praise, House just nodded gruffly, eyes averted.

"Judge Steinum is also assigned to the cases of the other two attackers," Brooke tactfully changed the subject. "Their arraignments are today as well, and judging by this case, we can expect similar outcomes. I don't believe they'll receive bail, either – but if they do, I can call you and let you know. You don't have to hang around here for the rest of the day if you don't want to."

House nodded, edging toward Wilson, silently urging him to step out into the aisle. Now that the arraignment was over, he was anxious to leave, to get as far from this place, and this new set of unsettling thoughts and memories, as he possibly could. Wilson took the hint, stepping away from his seat and reaching out to shake Brooke's hand.

"Thank you so much." He spoke with genuine gratitude. "For everything."

"Again, I couldn't have done anything about this without Dr. House," she reiterated with a smile. The smile faded somewhat, however, when she looked more closely at House, taking in his visibly shaken demeanor. "Dr. House, if you'd like… I can still give you that protective police detail, after all. If it'd make you feel any safer…"

"It wouldn't," House cut her off abruptly. "Like I already told you, I don't want any cops anywhere near me right now."

Brooke nodded, an apologetic grimace on her face. "I understand. I'll just let you get going. Let me know if you need anything. I just… wanted you to know… you're doing a really good thing, for a lot of people."

House nodded a bit awkwardly, heading toward the exit, his thoughts echoing in a grim circle.

_A good thing… maybe so… but will it be worth the price...?_


	49. Chapter 49

"Is this really necessary?"

House's voice was low, but terse and impatient as he tapped his foot rapidly against the floor across from Brooke's desk, his arms crossed defensively, head lowered to conceal the vulnerability and uncertainty in his eyes. He couldn't quite bring himself to look at the young woman as she paced slowly back and forth behind her desk.

The very reason for this visit was humiliating to him, and frankly, terrifying.

Two days had passed since Tritter's arraignment, and Brooke had called and asked House and Wilson to meet with her to go over their strategy for the trial – which, unfortunately, meant spending far more time and attention than House was comfortable with on what had happened to him. He spent every waking moment trying _not_ to think about it. The last thing he wanted was to spend the afternoon discussing it in detail with someone who was practically a stranger.

Now, he sat directly across from said practical stranger, the complete focus of both Brooke's and Wilson's attention.

"Why do I even need to be here? Isn't strategy your thing?" House continued when his question was met only with confused silence. "I'm just going to tell the truth, right? Tell the jury what happened? Why does that require a dress rehearsal?"

"This isn't a rehearsal. That's not why you're here," Brooke patiently explained, the sympathetic tone of her voice telling House that she understood his reluctance. "You're right. All you'll have to do is tell the truth. But at the same time, you have to know what to expect. I won't be the only one asking you questions. Tritter's defense attorney is going to do everything in his power to deliberately upset you… catch you off guard, confuse you. He's going to try to make you contradict yourself… to make you look like a fool, or a liar, or just an unsympathetic bastard… to alienate you from the jury."

"Well, considering that I _am_ all of the above," House muttered in quiet defeat, "what does it really matter?"

"House…" Wilson's tone was patient, concerned, as he studied House's face. "You know that's not…"

"All that should matter is the facts – what he did." House very deliberately cut off Wilson's sympathetic words, focusing on Brooke with forced calm.

"Yes, that's all that _should_ matter," Brooke agreed. "But unfortunately it's not all that _does_ matter. How you look to the jury is more important than you might think. A jury is just made up of _people_, and if those _people_ can't sympathize with you… Tritter could walk, no matter _how_ guilty he is."

House bit his lip, lowering his eyes again, but not before Brooke caught the flash of panic in his eyes at her words. His hands flexed into fists on his knees, and he drew in a deep breath, letting it out in a slow, shaky sigh.

Brooke's voice was gentle as she added softly, "Considering the evidence in your case, that's unlikely… but… I _have_ seen it happen. That's why this _is_ important, Dr. House. I'm sorry, but it's necessary."

House nodded, silently accepting the logic of her explanation – and trying hard not to think about how thoroughly unsympathetic most potential jurors seemed to find him.

"It's… unfortunate that you've already had one legal run-in with Tritter," Brooke continued. "The defense will try to use that." She paused a moment, studying House's face as she asked, "What will you say if they ask you about that?"

House shrugged with feigned carelessness. "I'll just tell them what happened. I didn't show Tritter the respect he thought he deserved when he showed up at _my_ workplace, and he trumped up the charges against me in order to get back at me. That's why I was acquitted of those charges, and that's why he… why he attacked me. Because his first attempt at payback failed so miserably."

Brooke nodded thoughtfully, considering. "That's… not what they'll say happened."

House glanced up at her again, a silent question in his troubled eyes.

"They'll say that the charges against you were legitimate, and you somehow managed to get out of them, but still resented Tritter's involvement. They'll say the current charges against Tritter are your way of getting back at him." Brooke paused a moment, eyes narrowing in mild speculation as she continued. "If there's anything about your past encounters with Tritter that you wouldn't want to be made public – anything that might make _you_ look like the bad guy here – trust me, those things _will_ come out during the trial."

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of House's stomach as he thought of the thermometer that had started the whole thing. He swallowed hard, fighting off a sudden and overwhelming wave of nausea as his mind filled with dozens of observations and accusations that a competent defense attorney might easily use against him.

"They might… say even worse things, too." Brooke's words were spoken with cautious gentleness, and accompanied by an apologetic grimace. "Since there's clear physical evidence against the other men involved in the attack, they might go the route of acknowledging that it happened, but trying to claim that it… wasn't as bad as we're saying it was. They could say that it was… rough, and violent, and unfortunately ended in some injuries, but… consensual."

"_Consensual_?" Wilson echoed in incredulous anger. "Do you actually think any jury would buy that?"

"Again," Brooke replied with an uncertain half-shrug, "it all comes down to which side the jury comes down on, emotionally. If Tritter can make himself appear sympathetic… and can make it sound like you're the one who's twisted and mentally messed up, and just trying to cover it up after the fact by crying rape…"

Her voice trailed off, and all three were silent for a few moments, considering the impact of her words.

"That's just one option, though," Brooke reminded them at last. "And a long shot, at that. A more likely argument for Tritter – considering that he's the only one against whom there's no actual DNA evidence – would be to say that the attack _did_ happen, but that it was the other men who attacked you, not him, and you just saw your chance to get back at him by accusing him."

"But the knife they found on him when he was arrested," Wilson reminded her. "That's solid physical evidence."

Brooke nodded. "It is," she affirmed. "And it's one of our _strongest_ pieces of evidence. Of course, they could try to argue that it was planted. They'll most likely try to make it appear that Tritter's being framed."

A visible shudder ran through House's shoulders, and he crossed his arms over his chest again, eyes downcast.

"You okay?" Wilson asked, his voice low and private.

House nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. "Yeah. Peachy."

"I'm sorry," Brooke said softly, leaning against the front of her desk, crossing her arms and her ankles as she faced House directly, sympathy in her eyes and voice. "I know this is a lot to process, and I'm probably not making it sound any less scary for you. I just want to be sure that you're prepared for this, because… well, the defense doesn't have to disclose their strategy to us prior to the trial, and… we really have no way of knowing which tactics they're going to use." Her voice was quiet and even as she explained. "I just want you to be prepared for anything they try to throw at us in that courtroom."

With another quiet, shaky sigh, House leaned forward, resting his head in his hands as he struggled to maintain his composure. Wilson reached out a cautious hand to rest on his shoulder, squeezing gently in silent comfort.

"Thank you," Wilson said to Brooke with warmth and sincerity in his voice as he met her gaze. "For letting us know what we're dealing with here. It's hard, but… we need to know. It's better if we're ready."

Brooke nodded absently, not taking her eyes off House, a worried frown creasing her brow. "We'll have plenty of time to go over all of this in more detail over the next week or so," she stated at last. "The two of you can talk about this, try to think of any potential problems I might be missing; and when we meet again, I'll have some practice questions for you, so you can be better prepared for the real deal."

House didn't raise his head, didn't react or respond at all, lost in the swirling vortex of his frightening thoughts. Wilson nodded in acknowledgement of Brooke's words, rising to his feet and removing his hand from House's shoulder. House took the silent cue, dragging himself from his own mind long enough to rise to his feet and head toward the door.

"Thank you, Brooke," Wilson repeated, pausing in the doorway after House walked out into the hall. "I'm sure we'll be talking to you soon."

*******************************

House didn't say a word during the drive home, despite Wilson's hesitant attempts to draw him into conversation. After a few minutes, Wilson gave up, opting to leave his friend to his own thoughts. If House wanted to talk, he would; if not, pushing him to do so would accomplish nothing.

Once inside the apartment, House immediately made his way to his bedroom and closed the door behind him, before Wilson could change his mind and make another attempt at concerned but stilted conversation.

His mood heavy and morose, Wilson sighed as he picked up the stack of mail from the floor under the mail slot, sorting through it absently, his thoughts still on the conversation with Brooke.

He immediately regained his focus when he came to an envelope with no address or postage – simply "Dr. House" written on the front in generic block letters. Wilson frowned, suspicious, as he opened the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside.

_House –_

_All that is coming to you – all that you have earned – you will receive._

Wilson's stomach lurched, as he instantly processed the meaning of the brief, cryptic message. It was clearly a threat, though who had left it was a disturbing mystery, considering that all known participants in Tritter's crimes were currently in police custody.

_House was right… We have no way of knowing who's on his side… He's still not safe, not yet… maybe not ever…_

Wilson frowned, considering for a moment. His first impulse was to destroy the note, before House could get a chance to see it. The last thing House needed right now was another reason to be afraid; but the note could be evidence, if whoever had written it happened to have been careless. Finally, he folded the note into a small square and tucked it into the pocket of the pair of pants he planned to wear the next day. He would take it to Brooke the next day and see what she made of it.

Wilson stood there for a moment, hesitating, before making a second decision. He walked to the phone and picked up the phone book from the shelf, flipping through its pages until he found the listing he was looking for.

_Personal Security_

Wilson picked up the phone, scanning down the page with his index finger until he found the name of a well-known company with whose name he was already familiar.

_A bodyguard… A trained professional who can watch out for House and make sure he's safe until all this is over…_

Wilson picked up the receiver, cradling it between his shoulder and his ear, his finger reaching toward the keypad. He froze, however, before pressing a key, when he heard a vaguely familiar voice echoing out of the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Eve? Hi. This is… Dr. House…"

House's voice, soft and hesitant and uncertain, followed, and Wilson realized that House had already started to make a call from the bedroom, before Wilson had picked up the phone.

"Oh, hi!" Eve sounded pleasantly surprised. "I wasn't expecting to hear from you. Is… everything okay?"

House was silent for a long moment before finally answering quietly. "…No."

There was only silence for a long moment, before House spoke again, his voice low and quiet and a little lost.

"I'm… sorry to bother you. I just… the trial starts soon, and… I just… need to… talk to someone. Someone who's… who's been there."

Wilson heard Eve's soft, understanding voice, but couldn't make out her words, as he slowly, cautiously replaced the receiver, careful not to let it make a sound to betray his presence. He was admittedly curious as to their conversation, but knew that he had to respect House's privacy.

He sat there for a few moments, lost in his own conflicting thoughts.

He was relieved and grateful that House had found an outlet for his fears and uncertainties, for the emotions that he couldn't bring himself to share with his friends, who couldn't possibly comprehend them, no matter how hard they tried. Eve could be a friend to House right now, a listening ear who could both relate to what he was feeling, and offer him support and advice, from someone who had already experienced these things before him.

Wilson was glad for House, that at last he'd found someone he felt safe enough to open up to.

Still, it was a bittersweet gladness – because that someone wasn't _him_.


	50. Chapter 50

"What if they don't believe me?"

House's voice was filled with quiet anguish, as he held the phone to his ear and spoke into it in hushed, confiding tones. He was huddled against the headboard of his bed, his knees drawn up close to his chest, his free arm wrapped around them, eyes locked onto the closed and secured bedroom door.

A part of his mind was still convinced that at any moment, Tritter might come through it.

Eve's soft, thoughtful voice on the other end of the line was strangely soothing. Her calm seemed to flow through the phone, easing the edge of panic trying to rise up within House's troubled mind.

"They'll believe you," she assured him. "You told me about the evidence – the knife, the videotape. There's no way a jury will be able to ignore that."

"The A.D.A. told me…" House persisted, hesitating over the frightening words, "… she told me… there's always a chance he could… could get off. And… if I don't testify…"

"You _need_ to testify, Dr. House," Eve interrupted gently. "And… not _just_ to get a conviction. This is… important, for other reasons. You have no idea how much good it will do you – how much it'll help you to get past what happened."

"I… I don't know." House's voice was barely audible. "I just… I'm not sure I _can_, Eve. I'm not sure I can… sit up there in front of all those people… and…" His voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "… in front of _him_… and talk about… the things… the things he did to me…"

"But that's just the way he wants you to feel," Eve pointed out. "The way he's _counting_ on you feeling. He's counting on the fact that you feel… ashamed about what happened. That's his power over you. But the truth is, _you_ have nothing to be ashamed of. _He's_ the one that should be ashamed. And when you stand up in a court of law and tell everyone _why_ – that's when you take your power back."

House was quiet for a long moment, taking in the weight of her words. Finally, he answered in a quiet, uncertain voice. "That's all well and good… if Tritter's convicted. But… if I do this… if I testify… and he… he still gets off… he'll kill me, Eve. He'll kill me… and… and my friends… I can't… I can't let that happen…"

"It won't happen," she assured him softly. "The evidence speaks for itself. All you have to do is tell the truth to back it up, and he won't stand a chance. A jury won't be able to help but see what kind of person he is."

"What about the kind of person _I_ am?" When Eve didn't answer for a few moments, confused by his question, House hesitantly explained. "You might not have had a chance to figure this out about me yet… but… I'm not exactly the nicest guy, myself."

"No, I must have missed that during the hours you spent trying to convince me that I didn't want to talk to you," Eve retorted in a wry voice of gentle sarcasm. "All I got from you that day was hugs and puppies."

"Seriously," House insisted quietly. "There's a lot of things about me… a lot of… things I've done… that would tend to make a jury dislike me. And… Tritter's defense attorneys are going to bring those things up in court. If they can make the jury think I'm… bad enough… as bad as Tritter, maybe… he could still get off."

"You've never raped and tortured anyone," Eve pointed out, a hard edge of anger creeping into her voice. "There is no way, no matter how bad they make you look, that you could possibly look any worse than him."

House didn't answer, clearly unconvinced. He closed his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the headboard, and let out a weary sigh.

"I think… the best thing you can do about those things… those things you're afraid for the jury to find out about you… is to bring them up yourself."

House opened his eyes again, a startled frown creasing his brow. "Come again?"

"Be honest about them. Tell the jury before Tritter's people get a chance to tell them."

House was quiet for a moment before responding in a slow, skeptical voice. "I'm… not exactly sure what good you think that'll do."

There was a weighted silence, and House knew instinctively that Eve was trying to summon her courage to say what she wanted to say next. He heard her draw in a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and trembling slightly, but filled with a deep sense of strength and confidence.

"That night… the night I was raped… I'd been drinking. I told you that before. It was… very confusing, because… part of the time, I wasn't sure what was happening. I was… really out of it. But… but I remember saying _no_. Very clearly. Again… and again. And… he didn't listen. It was most definitely _not_ my choice. It was rape."

She paused a moment before continuing. "But… his defense tried to use the fact that I was drinking… that, and… some past… mistakes I'd made… to prove that it wasn't rape. I used to… to party a lot. I'd been with a lot of guys, by choice. So… so they tried to make the jury think that I was a slut. They said I… I already knew I was pregnant when I went to the clinic, and I… tried to use a rape accusation to cover it up."

"What did you do?"

House asked the question in a quiet voice of vulnerable, searching curiosity. Eve's story sounded very much like the fears his mind had been concocting of what might happen during his own trial, and he was eager to hear how her situation had worked out.

"I told the truth," Eve replied. "Completely. Told them about my past… my reputation… admitted that I'd made a lot of bad decisions in the past… but made it clear that this was _not_ my decision. I may have made some foolish choices, but I didn't choose _him_, that night. It made my story _more_ credible, not less. The jury believed the evidence, and my testimony… and he's in prison now. Seven years. The way I handled the hard truths about myself… is what made it clear that what happened _wasn't_ my fault."

House nodded slowly, though he knew she couldn't see the gesture. He swallowed hard, steeling himself, before quietly confiding, "I'm afraid that… the… hard truths about myself… might make the jury think that it _is_ my fault." He opened his mouth to say more, but then just shook his head, unable to bring himself to go any further.

Fortunately, Eve easily saw through to the fears and uncertainties that bound him.

"It _wasn't_ your fault," she stated in a voice of firm conviction. "No matter what you think you might have done to… to provoke this guy… to make him want to attack you… nothing you could possibly have done gave him any excuse to do what he did. There is nothing they can tell the jury that justifies kidnapping and rape and torture."

"I stuck a thermometer up his ass and left him in an exam room with no way to get it out."

Stunned silence filled the air, and House cringed, apprehensively awaiting her reaction.

"Okay," she said slowly at last. "That's… bad. But… you must have had a reason. Right? What did he do to you first?"

House looked down, self-conscious though he knew she couldn't see him. "He… tripped me. Kicked my cane," he admitted. "Because he thought I was rude."

"Yeah," Eve scoffed with a note of triumph to her voice. "That story's _really_ gonna make the jury sympathize with the sadistic rapist who kicked a handicapped man's cane out from under him. Personally, I think the thermometer was less than he deserved."

"I thought so, too." House couldn't suppress a grin at the approval in her voice. "Obviously."

In the midst of the tension and uncertainty, they shared a moment's light laughter. In the silence that followed, however, House's smile faded away, his expression becoming solemn and troubled.

"There's… more than that. After that… he arrested me. I… I have a drug habit. Prescription only, and… and I need it, for the pain. My leg. I… have to take it. But… but he saw his chance and… got a warrant to search my place, and… got charges pressed against me. I only got off because… I had some influential friends who… stood up for me in court." He paused a moment, allowing her time to process his words before adding, "A jury might see my rape accusation as… payback. They might not believe me, or…" He hesitated, then finished in a soft, trembling voice of uncertainty.

"… Eve… I'm a big enough jerk… there are some people that… might think I deserved it."

Eve's voice was heavy with sorrow and sympathy, and anger at the idea he had expressed, when she answered in slow, certain words.

"You _didn't_ deserve it. It doesn't matter what you did. _Nothing_ could possibly make you deserving of what he did to you. You deserve justice… and he deserves to be punished. The jury will see that." She paused, adding emphatically, "_If_ you tell the truth. If you come clean about everything from the start. If you don't, and the defense brings them up, it could make you look like a liar… and that could be trouble."

They talked a while longer, and House found his fears fading gradually into a sense of safety and peace with every reassuring word Eve spoke. At last, when he felt himself drifting off to sleep mid-sentence, he laughed softly, running a hand over his sleepy eyes.

"Thank you," he said with full sincerity. "This… means a lot to me. Your… taking time to talk to me. You've… helped me a lot."

"Just returning the favor," Eve replied, and he could hear the affectionate smile in her voice. She hesitated a moment before asking gently, "Do you… want me to be there? For the trial? Because… I'll come, if you want me to."

House blinked, startled by the suggestion – and strangely warmed. He surprised himself when he answered, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd… I'd like that."

The next week and a half passed in a blur of frenzied activity – which was a fortunate thing. All the meetings with Brooke, practice for his testimony, and other preparations kept House too busy to focus on his impending panic – most of the time. Of course, there were moments when he couldn't help but think about the swiftly approaching trial, and facing Tritter in the courtroom – those cold eyes focused on him, that cold smile promising torment and death in repayment for House's disobedience.

In those moments, the only way he could stave off the panic was to call Eve, who had become his confidante for the things he couldn't bring himself to discuss with Wilson or Cuddy. He knew that Wilson wanted to help him, wanted House to feel like he could share the dark fears that filled his mind with his best friend; but there were some things that were just too much – some thoughts that were too muddled and confused, some fears that were too horrific – for him to share with Wilson or Cuddy.

They were burdens he could not allow himself to place on anyone who hadn't already borne them.

Unable to help House emotionally, Wilson hired a bodyguard to accompany House everywhere, to ensure his safety until Tritter's conviction. House had to admit, it _did_ make him feel a little safer, though there was a part of him that was dreadfully sure that, if Tritter really tried to get to him again, there would be little that anyone could actually do to protect him.

_If I can just get through the trial… just get him convicted… _then_ I'll be safe…_

But in spite of his best efforts to convince himself, House couldn't quite make himself believe it. And despite his fears, despite the trapped sensation of panic slowly constricting his chest, the impending confrontation with his most terrifying nightmares grew nearer with every day that passed… until finally, the day of the trial arrived.

_Oh, God… I can't do this… I don't think I can do this…_


	51. Chapter 51

"Over the course of the next few days, the state will prove to you that the man sitting before you today -- Michael Tritter -- is not the well-reputed law officer he would like you to believe he is. He is not the concerned, valuable citizen with deep ties to this community and its well-being that he wants you to think he is. No, there's a much darker side to this man, and I intend to show you that darker side."

Brooke paused in the course of her speech, glancing downward as she stopped her slow, rhythmic pacing in front of the jury box, before looking back up to meet the eyes of each of them in turn with a solemn, troubled gaze.

"It's a journey none of us will enjoy taking -- and none of us will finish this trial untouched by it. No one can come into contact with the kind of evil secretly housed in Michael Tritter, and come away unchanged. Not the victim of the heinous and reprehensible acts of which he stands accused…" Brooke paused, turning to gesture in House's general direction, before continuing, "… and not any of you who will hear those acts described, in detail… by the very person who was subjected to them, and others who have borne witness to the cruelty and vindictiveness of which Mr. Tritter is capable."

House ordinarily would have taken appreciative note of both the technical and emotional value of her speech. The words she spoke were true, though also highly manipulative emotionally. She was preparing the jury to hate Tritter from the start, warning them as to his hidden darker nature in a highly dramatic, intense way designed to catch their interest (and hopefully support) from the very beginning.

Ordinarily, House would have been impressed with her tactics.

Today, he hardly heard a word she spoke.

He sat a couple of rows from the front of the courtroom this time, in the area of the room usually reserved for the victim and key witnesses in cases such as these.

Wilson sat to his right, with Jenna beside him. Eve sat to his left, with Cuddy on the other side of her, her arm wrapped around the back of the bench on which they sat to rest a gentle, supportive hand on House's shoulder. The bodyguard Wilson had hired a week earlier stood at the back of the courtroom, keeping a watchful eye over the entire proceedings, on the lookout for the unlikely prospect of danger.

House should have felt perfectly safe.

He didn't.

House's eyes were locked onto his lap, his mouth dry with fear, his heart pounding as he struggled not to focus on the fact that, on the other side of the room, a few feet ahead of him, sat the man responsible for not only the devastating physical damage he had endured, but also the mental and emotional torment that constantly filled his mind.

Every few seconds, Eve glanced at him with an expression of studious concern and scrutiny, gauging his reaction cautiously. She frowned slightly when she saw the pallor that had stolen the color from his face, the trembling of his clenched hands in his lap, and the desperately taut, locked position of his jaw line, as he struggled not to allow his rising panic to the fore.

Looking at Brooke again with a calm expression on her face, Eve silently reached out and placed a soft hand over House's folded ones, easing her fingers insistently between his until she was holding his hand in a comforting gesture.

"Michael Tritter would like you to believe that he is the true victim in this case -- that this is a matter of a grudge against him, an attempt to somehow sabotage his admittedly impressive career," Brooke continued as she stepped slowly toward the center of the courtroom again, gesturing toward Tritter with one hand. "But that is not the case here. Not even close."

She drew in a breath, pausing for emphasis.

"Michael Tritter is a _monster_. He masks his evil with a rather convincing front of public service -- but the public service only allows him the cover he needs to exercise brutal and heinous abuses of his power. During these proceedings, the state will prove to you that this is a _very_ dangerous man, guilty of the most sadistic and horrifying of crimes, and deserving of punishment to the full extent of which the law is capable."

With a nod toward the judge to indicate that she was finished, Brooke calmly returned to her seat, a couple of rows ahead of where House and the others sat. House took in a deep breath, completely missing the reassuring smile she cast in his direction as she sat down. He couldn't help a nervous glance toward Tritter's side of the room, however, as Tritter's attorney rose to his feet and approached the jury to make his own opening statement.

Immediately House looked down again, swallowing hard and flinching slightly before he could quite bring himself to actually look at Tritter.

Beside him, he felt Eve shift a little closer on the bench, edging in and leaning back so that her lips were near his ear. Her eyes still focused on the front of the courtroom, she whispered softly in his ear.

"Go ahead. Look at him."

House gave her a startled, wary glance, then looked away, shaking his head slightly.

"Can't," he whispered back.

"Sure you can," Eve persisted, her voice only audible to House, the attention of the rest of the room focused on Tritter's smooth-talking lawyer. "Go ahead." She paused a moment, then added, softer, "_Trust me_."

"The Assistant District Attorney has called my client a monster -- accused him of horrific and sadistic crimes that, by all means, are definitely befitting the title of 'monster'. However -- my client is _not guilty_ of those crimes."

House nervously ran his damp palm across the surface of his jeans, struggling to steady himself, though the defense attorney's words sickened him. A cold, twisting sensation in his stomach accompanied the fearful thought that the jury might, just _might_ believe the man, and Tritter might be acquitted.

"Go on," Eve was still urging him gently. "He can't move from where he's at. A hundred people watching. He couldn't touch you if he tried." She paused a moment, her voice low and intent as she added firmly, "_Just... look_."

House drew in a sharp, shaky breath, straightening his shoulders slightly as he tried to maintain control of his emotions, and raised his eyes hesitantly toward Tritter. He glanced at him once, flinching slightly and losing his nerve, before steadying himself and looking up again.

Tritter was unaware of House's attention, his solemn, thoughtful expression leveled on his attorney, listening as the man sang his praises, talking about his stellar record on the police force, his heroism and professionalism other nonexistent character traits that he hoped would keep him out of prison.

House felt a shudder of revulsion go down his spine, and started to look away, but Eve's gentle hand squeezed his in a silent command to keep looking.

"Check out his hands," she whispered, nodding toward Tritter.

House frowned, puzzled by the order. Hesitantly, but with a sense of relief, he focused his attention on Tritter's hands on the desk in front of him -- much easier than trying to bring himself to face the man.

Eve leaned closer, nodding toward Tritter again as she said, "Watch him. Notice anything interesting?"

House tried to block out the threatening, accusing voices of his fears and memories and focus on whatever it was she was trying to get him to see. With an effort, he shut out everything else, and gradually became aware of what Eve had already noticed.

Tritter's hands were shaking. His left hand was closed into a tight, white-knuckled fist resting on the desk; the fingers of his right were tapping impatiently, anxiously, against the desktop.

"He's... nervous," House whispered, eyes widening slightly with the implications of that simple realization.

"Yeah," Eve agreed. "Scared, even." She paused a moment, allowing that to sink in before adding, "Of _you_."

House glanced at her, startled, swallowing slowly but saying nothing as he returned his gaze to the telltale nervous gestures of Tritter's hands.

"Michael Tritter is a decent man, committed to his career and his community, whose only crime, as we will prove to you throughout the course of these proceedings, was to press charges against a drug addict -- a drug _dealer_ -- who now attempts to present himself as a victim before us all."

House flinched, distracted by the harsh words of the defense attorney, glancing down at his lap again.

The attorney's voice was solemn, thick with false sympathy, as he continued, "And the defense does not deny -- Dr. Gregory House is indeed _someone's_ victim. The heinous acts committed against him are indeed tragic and horrible -- but _Michael Tritter_ did not commit them."

"Ignore him," Eve whispered urgently, pulling slightly at House's hand in an attempt to regain his attention. "That's all lies -- and you know it is. Look at _Tritter_."

House obeyed, grateful for the distraction this time, eager to focus on something besides the attorney's troubling words, and the building sick sensation they created in his stomach. Tritter's hands were still shaking, and his tapping had quickened since House had last looked. As House watched, Tritter suddenly seemed to notice his own unconscious reaction, and abruptly clenched his tapping fingers into a fist and hid it beneath the desk, on his leg.

House couldn't really understand it.

"Why?" he whispered at last, shaking his head. "Why should he be scared of me?"

"Because this is his life -- his career -- at stake. And _you_ could end it. Just by getting up there on that stand and telling the truth -- _you_ can bring an end to the world he's built for himself. He could spend the rest of his life in a prison cell, because of you. _You_ have the power now, Dr. House -- not him. Not anymore. He's shaking like that, fidgeting and scared -- because he _knows_ it."

House stared up toward Tritter, eyes wide and wondering as his mind processed the words Eve had spoken. It was a concept that seemed so simple now, and yet one that he had not been allowed to consider by the fears and insecurities instilled in him by Tritter's terroristic abuse. Tritter had left him feeling as if the man was invincible, virtually omnipotent, and that any attempts he might make to defend himself against him would be useless.

Now, House felt a thin thread of hope and courage building within him, winding slowly around the swelling panic and mindless terror that had threatened to consume him, holding it back, keeping it at bay as the defense attorney continued his statement.

"Dr. Gregory House accuses my client of some terrible things. He calls him a rapist, a kidnapper, and worse. But what you haven't been told, yet, is the nature of the man making these accusations. Dr. House is a known liar and drug addict, despised within his own social and professional circles, due to his inability to maintain a stable and healthy lifestyle – or even to hold a civil conversation with another human being. Due to circumstances of his own creation, Dr. House's life recently spun out of control, and the only person he can think to blame for that -- besides the obvious choice of himself, that is -- is my client. During the days to come, we will show you how this came about, and you will see that this trial is not about putting a monstrous criminal in prison or protecting an innocent victim. No, this trial is about a doctor with a God-complex who can't face the responsibility he bears for his own problems, and an innocent man who now stands accused because of that inability."

House felt the queasy sensation in his stomach gaining strength, and lowered his head in shame, unable to look at the judge or jury, let alone Tritter, as the accusing words filled his ears. His face flushed with uncomfortable self-consciousness, and he wondered what the jury thought of the defense attorney's words.

Did they believe him? Were they already deciding in the backs of their minds that _he_ was the one at fault, not Tritter?

Was he already the villain, and Tritter the victim, in their minds?

His support system around him silently rallied -- Eve squeezing his hand reassuringly, while Cuddy's hand on his shoulder did the same, and Wilson visibly bristled with indignation at the unfair accusations. House could not help but be aware of the handful of people in the room who were undeniably on his side, no matter what anyone said, and that was at least somewhat reassuring.

"Don't worry," Eve whispered, reminding him, "All you have to do is tell the truth."

"With the opening statements complete," the judge spoke in an officious tone from her seat on the platform at the front of the room, "is the state ready to proceed with its case?"

"We are, Your Honor," Brooke replied without hesitation, rising to her feet. "Without any further delay, the state calls its first witness to the stand -- Dr. James Wilson."


	52. Chapter 52

After being sworn in, Wilson took his seat on the witness stand, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his shoulders taut and his face lined with tension. He swallowed hard, trying not to allow the sick, anxious fluttering he felt in his stomach to show.

"Could you state your name and occupation for the court, please?" Brooke asked him with a polite half-smile, probably designed to put him more at ease -- but failing miserably.

"Dr. James Wilson. I'm the head of oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

"And what is your relationship to the alleged victim in this case, Dr. Gregory House?"

Wilson hesitated a moment, glancing uncertainly toward the jury, then allowing his gaze to fall on House -- where it immediately softened with compassion. His voice was soft and certain as he responded at last.

"He's… a very close friend."

"You are the physician who first treated Dr. House's injuries when he was attacked. Is that correct?"

Wilson nodded, then caught himself, clearing his throat and answering aloud, "Yes, that's correct."

"Where were you on the night of the incident in question?" Brooke asked.

"I was in my office, working late on some paperwork I had to finish. It was about... ten or eleven, I'd say, when House came into my office."

"Can you describe his condition when he came to your office?"

Wilson drew in a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself for the difficult explanation. "He... seemed all right at first. I... didn't notice anything wrong immediately. He just seemed a little... out of it. Like... hazy... disoriented, maybe."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, glancing down at his folded hands before looking up again and continuing.

"He was in shock. I noticed that he was... limping a little more heavily than usual... seemed to be in pain... and his clothes were all torn and messed up, so... I asked him if he was all right. He just said that someone... someone stole his motorcycle from the parking garage, while he was there, and he... he fell, when they took it from him."

"Did you notice any obvious injuries?" Brooke prompted when Wilson was quiet for a moment.

"Not at first," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "But of course, I was concerned. He had just told me that he'd been robbed, so I wanted to check him over, make sure he was all right. I suggested he go to the emergency room, but... but he... he insisted that he... didn't want anyone else to... to touch him..."

Wilson swallowed hard, lowering his gaze as he struggled over words that brought back painful memories of that horrific night.

"It didn't look like he was too badly hurt, until... until I... helped him to stand up," he continued in a halting voice, trembling with emotion. "That's when I... when I saw the... the blood."

Wilson was quiet for a long, tense moment, struggling to maintain his composure. Finally, Brooke gently pressed him to continue, walking close to the witness stand and catching his eye before she spoke.

"Where was the blood, Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson's voice was hoarse, trembling, hardly over a whisper. "All... all over his... the back of his pants. And... and his side. He'd been... stabbed, and... and raped. I knew, immediately, but... but I didn't... didn't want to think..."

"I understand that this is difficult," Brooke acknowledged patiently. "But can you please try to tell us... what happened then? What did you do when you realized that your friend was much more badly injured than you'd originally thought?"

"He was still... still adamant that no one else know... what had happened to him," Wilson explained, a bit more in control for the moment. "So I... went and got a gurney, and took him to a private room to... to examine him."

"Can you describe for the court the extent of Dr. House's injuries as you observed them?"

Wilson's jaw locked with repressed anger, as he looked up at Brooke, then turned his smoldering, resentful gaze toward Tritter as he gave his answer, startlingly steady and confident, as opposed to his earlier testimony.

"He'd been severely beaten -- apparently, with his own cane. His entire body was covered in bruises. There were severe ligature marks on his wrists, and his neck, where he was... handcuffed, and choked. He'd been stabbed in the upper abdomen, and... and..."

Wilson struggled to steady himself enough to finish, his voice trembling dangerously, but he did not look away from Tritter, who brazenly held his gaze, the barest ghost of a smile visible around his lips.

"There was... severe... tearing, and... bruising... from the... from the rape, as well as... lacerations. I thought, at the time, it looked like they'd used a... a knife, on him."

"I'd like to introduce State Exhibit A," Brooke addressed the judge, walking to the prosecutor's area of the room and picking up a sealed plastic bag containing Tritter's knife. "This knife, found in the possession of the defendant, stained with blood proven by DNA testing to belong to the victim, Dr. Gregory House."

She passed the bag to the foreman of the jury, then returned to stand in front of Wilson again as it made its way slowly down the line, closely examined by each juror.

"Dr. Wilson -- who do you believe to be guilty of the assault against your friend?"

"Objection." Tritter's attorney rose to his feet immediately. "Calls for speculation by the witness."

"Testimony will show that Dr. Wilson's opinion is based on evidence, not mere speculation," Brooke countered without hesitation. "If you'll allow me to continue, Your Honor, the witness response will show..."

"Overruled," the judge stated. "Proceed, Ms. Landers, but with caution. Dr. Wilson, you may answer the question."

Wilson's lips formed a cold, tight smile as he looked at Tritter and replied with firm conviction, "The defendant -- Michael Tritter."

Brooke nodded slowly. "And why do you believe him to be guilty?"

"I figured it out, the day House was released from the hospital," Wilson replied. "And once I figured it out, House confirmed that it was true. Tritter was the one who instigated and carried out the attack."

"May I ask, what made you first suspect that the defendant was Dr. House's attacker?" Brooke continued, pacing slowly across the front of the courtroom.

Wilson hesitated a moment, weighing his words carefully. "I suspected Mr. Tritter because... because House seemed unusually afraid at the prospect of involving the police. And... and because of a recent conflict he'd been involved in... with Mr. Tritter."

"And, to your knowledge, what was the nature of that conflict?"

Speaking slowly, with caution, Wilson replied, "Mr. Tritter had a... brief altercation with House at the hospital when he came into the clinic for treatment, and... Mr. Tritter subsequently arrested him on drug charges which were later proven to be false. My reasoning was that... if Tritter's first attempt at payback failed, then... maybe he tried a _different_ revenge tactic."

The last few words were spoken with anger and disgust, as Wilson shot another bitter, accusing glare in Tritter's direction.

"So, based on your observations of their history, you would say it's highly likely that Mr. Tritter would want to hurt Dr. House..."

"Objection, Your Honor," the defense attorney interrupted in a weary, put-upon voice. "Again... speculation."

"Sustained. Choose a different line of questioning, Ms. Landers."

"I'm finished, Your Honor," Brooke replied with a bright, innocent smile. "However, the state reserves the right to recall this witness at a later date, in connection with further evidence not yet presented to this court."

"Granted," the judge agreed with a nod.

Brooke nodded in return as she headed back to her seat, directing her attention momentarily to the defense attorney.

"Your witness."

The defense attorney rose and walked with casual, almost predatory grace toward the witness stand, fixing a cool, speculative smile on Wilson. Wilson just stared calmly back at him, mentally preparing himself for the expected attack.

"You called Dr. House a... close friend."

Wilson nodded. "Yes, that's correct."

"I'd assume it's safe to say you'd do a lot for your close friends, wouldn't you, Dr. Wilson?" the attorney mused with false thoughtfulness. "A man might do just about anything to help a good friend... right? Even, say, lie to back up a story he knew wasn't true, in order to help his friend get revenge against a man with whom he had a personal vendetta..."

"Objection..."

"Sustained."

"That's not true!" Wilson snapped, glaring at the attorney. "I wouldn't perjure myself, even if I _did_ have a reason. Everything I've said is true."

"Perhaps," the defense attorney conceded with a reluctant half-shrug. "However... there are a lot of other true things you neglected to mention, aren't there, Dr. Wilson? Like, for example, the _nature_ of the altercation between Dr. House and my client -- the fact that, prior to any alleged assault committed against Dr. House, he committed an assault against my client for which he was formally ordered to apologize. Or the fact that the drug charges against Dr. House just _might_ have been due to the fact that he does indeed have a drug _addiction_. And then, you also might have mentioned the fact that Dr. House is known to _frequently_ abuse the power of his position, bully his patients, and engage in other activities that might appear consistent with a man of questionable ethics – the sort of man who would create this sort of accusation out of pure vindictive spite..."

"Objection… _objection_…" Brooke repeated throughout the attorney's fervent, accusatory speech.

"Yeah," Wilson spat out in barely suppressed fury. "He went out and deliberately got himself _kidnapped, raped_, and _tortured_, just so he could pin it on Tritter!"

"_Sustained_!" the judge snapped in a severe voice, tapping her gavel against the podium and fixing the defense attorney with a warning look. "Counselor, there'd better be an actual _question_ somewhere in your next statement. Stop speculating, and let the evidence speak for itself."

"Yes, Your Honor," the attorney agreed with a nod and a smile, unperturbed by her disapproval. "Dr. Wilson…" His voice softened, becoming casual and almost friendly again as he continued, "… isn't it true that rape victims are _often_ reluctant to report their experiences to the police, even in circumstances where their rapists _aren't_ police officers? Isn't it very possible that Dr. House might have been unwilling to come forward, _regardless_ of the identity of his attacker?"

Wilson shook his head without hesitation. "His reaction was extreme. It seemed to be more specific than the general fear of exposure that most rape victims experience."

"Uh huh." The attorney nodded in mock agreement, before stopping and giving Wilson a dubious look. "You run across a lot of rape victims in your _oncology_ practice, Dr. Wilson?"

"Not usually," Wilson conceded with a dismissive huff of quietly sarcastic laughter, "but I had to graduate _medical_ school in order to go _into _oncology, so I'd say I'm qualified to observe symptoms…"

"Qualified – and unbiased, when it comes to the matter of your 'close friend'?" the attorney countered. "During the course of the events you've described, Dr. Wilson, did it ever cross your mind that perhaps your friend might have been bettered served by having a physician who could separate his relationship with him as a patient from his relationship with him as a friend? Or better yet, a physician who didn't have such a conflicting relationship to begin with? Isn't it possible that your conclusions regarding the attack might have been influenced by your loyalty to your friend?"

"_No_!" Wilson snapped, unable to keep a note of defensive anger from his voice as he argued, "My friendship with House in no way hinders my ability to be a good doctor for him. I've been House's primary physician for years, and there's never been an issue of bias or poor judgment due to our friendship…"

"Until now."

"Objection!"

"Nothing further, Your Honor."

The defense attorney turned away from the witness stand with a smooth smile, negating the need for the judge to rule on the objection as he took his seat behind the table next to Tritter. Wilson momentarily met the eyes of the detective, who gave him a smug smirk that showed just exactly what he thought of Wilson's testimony, and the effect it might have had on the jury – and the case.

"Dr. Wilson, you may step down."

Wilson's legs shook as he made his way back to his seat, then slipped gratefully into it, afraid he might collapse from sheer nerves if he had to stand a moment longer. He ran a shaking hand through his hair, then lowered his head with a heavy sigh, disappointed with himself and his testimony, and afraid that the clear emotional bias he had portrayed on the stand might cause the jury to doubt his word.

Wilson had promised House his support, his protection; and yet, when it came down to the actual event… he had failed him.

He leaned toward House, resting a hand on his shoulder as he whispered with an apologetic look of guilty regret, "I'm so sorry."


	53. Chapter 53

"Please state your name and occupation for the court."

"My name is Jenna Leander, and I'm a private investigator."

Brooke paced slowly in front of the witness stand as she went on in a calm, polite tone of cool professionalism. "And how do you know Dr. Gregory House?"

"He's a client of mine," Jenna replied simply. "I'm employed by him."

"How and for what purpose did he employ your services, Ms. Leander?"

"His friend -- Dr. Wilson -- contacted me and explained that Dr. House had been attacked by at least one member of the police force, and they were afraid of coming forward without enough evidence -- afraid that if they did, they wouldn't be able to get a conviction, and Dr. House would be in even greater danger."

Brooke nodded thoughtfully, acknowledging the reasoning of that explanation. "And what did you uncover during the course of your investigation?"

"Well," Jenna began cautiously, "I came across other individuals who'd crossed paths with Detective Tritter in past legal proceedings, and were later injured under suspicious circumstances. I interviewed two of those individuals, and one of them -- one Mr. Alamo -- confirmed to me that Michael Tritter was indeed the person responsible for his 'accident'..."

"Objection!" the defense attorney immediately declared, rising to his feet. "There is no evidence linking my client to the case the witness is referring to -- which is already closed -- and therefore the allegations of the alleged victim in that other case are irrelevant."

"Sustained," the judge agreed, fixing a severely warning look on Jenna. "Will the witness please restrict your answers to information pertaining to _this_ case _only_."

"Yes," Brooke smoothly agreed as well, nodding as she gave Jenna an encouraging smile. "Let's stay focused on the startlingly clear evidence you managed to obtain in _this_ case." She turned back toward the judge to add, "The state would like to submit our evidence Exhibit B -- a videotape obtained through the professional experience of this witness."

A monitor was brought in on a wheeled cart, and Brooke took the videotape from its protective plastic covering and inserted it into the recorder. It had been edited to begin at the moment when Tritter had caught House outside his apartment, and began with a clear visual image of House's front door.

A moment later, a voice that was muffled but clearly distinguishable as Tritter's spoke, followed by House's trembling but distinct words, filled with unmistakable panic.

_"Please... please, don't..."_

_"Shut up."_

The harsh, menacing command was clearly audible, and the camera abruptly jerked, shaking slightly, before coming back into focus. Although the camera angle made it impossible for those in the courtroom to tell exactly what had just happened, the movement was clearly violent and outside the control of the camera's wearer.

House remembered with perfect clarity -- Tritter grabbing him by the throat, choking him, shoving him forward and trapping him against his own front door, as his large, rough hands roamed over House's body with sickening intimacy… a prelude to the further trauma and abuse that would follow once he was forced to allow his attacker into his own home.

He lowered his eyes, unable to look at the screen – the slightly skewed version of his own perspective in his memories – his face flushing with shame as the judge, jury, and audience witnessed his abuse and humiliation. His mouth was dry, his heart fluttering like a tiny bird trapped in his chest, as a deep, roiling sickness rose up from his stomach to his throat.

He tried to shut out the painfully familiar voice, aware despite its muffled quality that Tritter was ordering him into his apartment, to reset the security system, threatening him with further suffering and death if he failed to obey completely.

Brooke paused the tape a few minutes into it to ask Jenna quietly, "Ms. Leander, how was this videotape recorded?"

"In my line of work, we call it a button cam," Jenna replied. "It's a tiny recording device about the size and shape of a button, which can be worn by someone without anyone else realizing that they're wearing it."

"And who was wearing the camera that took this video?"

Jenna's eyes were solemn and troubled as she glanced between the video and House before returning Brooke's gaze and answering, "Dr. House."

"Did you personally witness the situation when this recording was taken?"

"Yes. I was present, in a closed room in Dr. House's apartment, so I was able to partially witness what took place from the moment the two of them entered the apartment."

"And by the two of them, you mean Dr. House, and... who else? Whose is the second voice in the recording?"

"The defendant, Mr. Tritter."

"You said you were in a closed room in the apartment while the recorded scene took place. Were you able to personally see or hear any of what happened?"

"I didn't personally see it, and I wasn't able to hear very clearly at times, but I did catch some of it," Jenna explained with a tentative nod.

"At this time I'll continue to play the video..." Brooke turned toward the judge as she spoke. "... and Ms. Leander, if you would please clarify for us what you heard, on the parts of the audio that are unclear."

The tape was played again, and while House's words were clear throughout, there were places on the tape where Tritter's words were muffled or indistinct, due to his position in relation to the recording device, or the unintentional jostling of the camera that was the result of his rough manhandling of House.

Though Tritter's words were not always distinguishable, however, the violence of his actions was unmistakable, as was the distinct panic in House's trembling, breathless voice as he begged in tears for his life and the lives of his friends. Several audible gasps nearly drowned out the thankfully clear voice on the tape as Tritter tauntingly detailed the brutalities he had already committed against House, deliberately throwing in his face the apparent absence of any cameras to record his "confession".

Brooke watched with subdued satisfaction in her eyes as the jury visibly tensed when Tritter choked House, slapped him in the face, forced him to his knees on the floor with chillingly vicious threats of degradation and abuse, demanding his continued silence about what had been done to him already.

When the tape was finished, Brooke just quietly surveyed the expressions of shock and horror on the faces of the jury, before glancing toward the defense with a curt nod and quietly relinquishing the floor.

"Your witness."

The challenging tone of her voice _dared_ the defense to find a way to turn such damning evidence on its head. The defense attorney rose and made his way toward Jenna, a smug expression of dubious accusation on his face.

"Do you make a practice in your line of work, Ms. Leander, of recording individuals without their prior knowledge or consent?"

Jenna frowned. "Not as a general rule," she conceded, "but in some cases it's necessary..."

"Is it considered good ethics to deliberately set up a situation in which a person might be expected to act in a certain way, in order to then record that situation and use it to condemn the individual in question? Isn't that actually considered to be entrapment?"

"In these particular circumstances," Jenna replied, one eyebrow raised speculatively, "no. Unless Dr. House walking into his own home alone is considered the 'right circumstances' to coerce your client into acts of sadistic terrorism."

A soft hum of conversation filled the courtroom for a few moments, and the judge banged her gavel a couple of times to restore order. When the room was quiet again, she looked toward Jenna with reluctant disapproval.

"Ms. Leander, please just answer the questions put to you. The colorful commentary is unnecessary."

Jenna nodded as she went on. "All right. To answer the question, then -- the recording was completely within legal and ethical boundaries. According to the law, anyone can have as many cameras as they choose within their own home, _anywhere_ in their home. The incident in question took place within Dr. House's apartment, and he was the one wearing the camera."

"You said you couldn't clearly hear much of the conversation between the two people in the next room, is that correct?"

"Yes," Jenna confirmed with quiet confidence. "That's true."

"Well, in that case, how can you be certain that it was my client you heard at all? Did you see him there?"

"No, but..."

"Had you ever heard Mr. Tritter's voice before?"

"No, I hadn't, but there's no reason to think..."

"Isn't it a convenient coincidence that the person on that recording -- _presumed_ to be my client -- just _happened_ to make such a thorough and detailed 'confession' of what Dr. House alleges to have happened on the night he was attacked? Isn't it just possible that the person you heard in the next room with Dr. House wasn't my client at all?"

Jenna frowned, shaking her head in confused, disgusted denial of the defense attorney's proposition. "Then, who...?"

"Dr. House has an established reason to hold a grudge against my client. Isn't it possible that he used you to gather this so-called 'evidence' against my client -- this evidence which conveniently includes no clear shot of Mr. Tritter's face? Isn't it possible that Dr. House hired someone with a somewhat similar voice to simply play the part?"

"Possible, maybe, but ridiculously unlikely..."

"But _possible_." The defense attorney latched onto the word with a satisfied nod, as he turned back toward his seat. "So... you didn't clearly see or hear anything the night the recording was made, or record anything that conclusively proves that the man in the recording is my client at all, or even uncover anything to link him to the attack on Dr. House, during the course of your investigation."

Jenna opened her mouth to respond, but the defense attorney addressed the judge before she could.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

"Damn," House whispered, wide eyes locked onto the defense attorney, though his dread-filled words were directed toward Wilson beside him. "That actually makes sense."

"No, it doesn't," Wilson argued in a low, terse whisper. "It's a lie."

"But I _could_ have. For all the jury knows..."

"We have a vocal expert that will say otherwise," Wilson reminded him gently, reaching out a hand to rest lightly on House's shoulder in a subtle show of support.

"Will the state call its next witness?"

House looked at Wilson through stricken, panicked eyes, swallowing hard before countering in a hoarse, choked whisper, "What if they have an expert who says it's possible?"

Wilson didn't have time to give him a reassuring answer, because at that moment, Brooke returned to the front of the room to call her next witness -- who was currently falling apart, in a desperate state of panic.

"The state calls Dr. Gregory House to the stand."

House looked up at her, startled, too shaken by the events of the morning so far to be ready to hear his own name called. He swallowed hard, the action painful as his mouth was dry, his lips trembling. He bit his lower lip, squaring his shoulders with an effort as he struggled to steady himself.

"It's all right," Wilson whispered, squeezing his shoulder before removing his hand to allow House to rise. "You can do this."

"Just tell the truth," Eve advised from his other side with gentle concern in her voice. "You'll be fine..."

At that moment, House wished they would both just be silent and leave him alone.

He wished the entire _world_ would just leave him alone.

He wished he could disappear.

Numb, moving only because some part of his mind recognized that it was what he was supposed to do at that time, House rose to his feet with difficulty, making his way with slow, halting steps toward the witness stand. He sat down, leaning his cane against the stand beside him, then braced his hands against the barrier in front of him, struggling against the rising wave of nausea, the prickling flashes of color at the edges of his vision as his breath quickened with the impending panic attack he was fighting off.

"Please state your name and occupation for the court," Brooke requested, her voice soft and patient, reassuring.

House barely noticed. His voice was low, barely audible, when he forced himself to respond, eyes focused on the grain of the wooden bar in front of him.

"G-gregory House. I work at... I'm... Head of Diagnostics at... Princeton... Princeton Plainsboro... Teaching Hospital."

_And that was the _easy_ one... Get it together, you useless moron..._

"When did you first meet the defendant, Michael Tritter?"

Brooke's question was delivered in a gentle, cautious voice, and House recognized with gratitude that she was attempting to start him off slowly, to ease him into the more difficult parts of his testimony to come. Still, he could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears, and he struggled to focus on the answer to the question she had just given him.

"He was... a patient, in the clinic... at the hospital where I work. He... came in with a condition he... he wanted me to treat..."

House hesitated, swallowing hard, his breath catching in his throat. He lowered his head, eyes closed, as he tried to think of anything but Tritter's sharp, piercing gaze that he could feel, locked onto him in silent, subtle menace.

"Can you describe for the court what happened during your first meeting with the defendant?" Brooke prompted him gently.

House drew in a deep, shaky breath, eyes still focused downward. He tried to summon his courage, his pride -- willed himself to find the strength to make eye contact with Brooke, the jury, anyone -- but all he could think was that they _knew_. They _knew_ what had been done to him, knew how ruined and broken and thoroughly defiled he was. He couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes any higher than the wooden bar in front of him, or his voice above a hoarse, hesitant near-whisper.

"I... I knew by looking at him... what was... what was wrong..."

"Your Honor," the defense attorney interrupted, rising to his feet and speaking with a note of false sympathy in his apologetic voice, "could you please ask the witness to speak up a bit? I don't believe the jury can hear his testimony."

The judge frowned with disapproval, but gave House a rueful half-nod of concession. "Please do try to speak up," she advised him gently. "The jury needs to hear what you have to say."

House nodded once, his head lowered, as he replied in a voice that was only slightly louder, "Yes, Your Honor."

"So... you made an immediate diagnosis of Mr. Tritter's illness..." Brooke prompted.

House nodded again. "But... he wasn't... wasn't satisfied. He wanted me to... to run some tests, and I... basically..." House cleared his throat, his face flushing with self-consciousness as he thought of the jury's disapproval. "... called him an idiot. Told him... I'd already told him... what was... wrong..."

His voice trailed off, and House fought off his mounting panic as he remembered that relatively innocuous incident in the clinic, his mind focusing on the details of Tritter's face, his voice, his deceptively calm manner, and translating those images into the later, more nightmarish memories that now haunted his every waking moment.

"Dr. House?" Brooke spoke softly, and he looked up at her, startled. "What happened next?"

House drew in a deep breath of cool air, trying to combat the sick sensation of nausea in his throat, looking away from the concerned frown on Brooke's face -- and accidentally directing his gaze toward Tritter, for just a fraction of an instant, before he swiftly looked back down again at the bar in front of him.

That fraction of an instant was more than enough.

Tritter's face bore a calm, controlled expression with just the barest hint of a smile that probably no one but House perceived. In the moment when their eyes met, House saw a knowing gleam of derision and cold satisfaction in Tritter's ice blue eyes -- and a promise of retaliation for the very words House was struggling to find the courage to speak.

His heart leapt up into his throat, and all at once he couldn't breathe. The sparks of color at the edges of his vision that had momentarily receded now returned, and House felt dizzy, sick, the world spinning around him.

"Dr. House?"

Brooke stepped closer to him, her frown deepening with the knowledge that something might actually be wrong. House flinched at the quick movement, biting back a cry of alarm, his hands twitching on the bar in an aborted gesture of self-defense, before he lowered his head to rest in his trembling fingers, gasping for breath.

He shook his head, eyes closed, desperate to shut it all out.

"I can't," he whispered desperately. "I'm sorry... I can't..."

Wilson half-rose in his seat, uncertain as to what he should do, as the judge turned toward House with a voice that was stern but compassionate.

"Dr. House," she informed him gently, "if you can't testify... we'll have to move on. Now... I'm sure that's not what you..." She paused, rephrasing with slow, cautious emphasis, "I'm sure you want the opportunity to tell this court your side of what happened."

"I can't," House repeated, fighting back tears, shaking his head in despair, unable to return her gaze. "I'm sorry... I just... just can't..."

The judge frowned, troubled, opening her mouth to speak, but unsure of what to say.

"Your Honor," the defense attorney said, tentatively drawing her attention.

House glanced up at the man nervously, just in time to see Tritter settling back into his seat, and knew from the slight smile on Tritter's face that whatever the attorney was about to say was not his own idea. He looked down again, one hand cradling his aching, spinning head, the other clenching tightly around the handle of his cane.

"Your Honor, the defense recognizes that, despite my client's innocence, Dr. House has nevertheless endured a horribly traumatic experience. We would not be opposed to a brief recess in order to allow him to prepare himself to testify."

The judge frowned with suspicion, but nodded slowly, her shoulders slumping slightly with relief. "Yes, a recess is in order. Dr. House -- I'd advise you take this time to think very seriously about the situation, and your part in it." She faced the court again as she stated, louder, "This court is in recess. We will reconvene in two hours."

House stared at the defense attorney, disbelieving of the apparently compassionate request Tritter had asked him to make -- well aware that it could not possibly be as kind and altruistic an offer as Tritter wanted everyone to believe. He ventured another glance at Tritter himself, who raised a brow in a silent challenge -- and all at once, House understood.

Even now, Tritter wanted him to know that he was still calling the shots, still able to either reduce his defenses to rubble, or bestow mercy -- all the while subtly mocking his terror and brokenness, and taking pleasure from it.

As the onlookers began to file out into the rest of the building, House's entire body was shaken by violent tremors. Still, he wrenched himself out of the chair and to his feet, stumbling in his hurry to escape the witness stand and make his way down the hallway.

Wilson made it to the end of the aisle at the same time that House passed him, and reached out to catch his arm with an urgency born of concern.

"House... wait..."

"_Don't_."

House choked out the strangled protest, yanking his arm away from Wilson so hard that he nearly lost his balance and fell over, before lurching away from his friend and pushing his way through the crowd in the aisle and out into the courthouse. In blind desperation, House rushed toward the men's room, barely making it into the handicapped stall before collapsing painfully to his knees on the floor in front of the toilet -- and vomiting up the contents of his clenched, aching stomach.

_Game over..._

The thought echoed dully in his exhausted mind, numb with despair and resignation. He knew that the recess wouldn't make any difference, as far as he was concerned. Tritter would still be there when court resumed – and House would still be too thoroughly destroyed to stand up to him, even surrounded by hundreds of witnesses.

_He wins._


	54. Chapter 54

House struggled to breathe through the panic that overwhelmed him, and the desperate wave of nausea that choked him as he retched helplessly into the toilet in front of him, his heart pounding in his chest as he fought not to black out. His thoughts were a dark, swirling vortex, sucking him back down every time he struggled to the surface, fighting not to drown in his own panic and desperation.

_He's going to kill me... I can't testify, can't make myself face him and tell what he did, but it doesn't matter because either way he's going to kill me..._

When there was nothing left in him for his body to reject, House still crouched over the toilet, his knees throbbing from the force with which they had hit the cold tile, his thigh aching from the uncomfortable position, and his stomach still clenched in cold, trembling knots as his entire body shook with dread.

_It's hopeless. I can't do this, can't tell them, and it's over... he wins... he's going to walk, and I'll never be safe again, and Wilson and Cuddy and Jenna and anyone I've ever told about him is going to die and it's all because of _me_..._

_And… I didn't lock the door when I came in here... he could come in at any time... he could be outside this stall right now..._

Although he knew on a purely intellectual level that Tritter was in shackles in the courtroom and couldn't touch him, House felt a sudden, irrational chill of terror wash through him, as he remembered what he'd neglected in his rush to get to the bathroom.

Suddenly, he felt incredibly vulnerable, on his knees on the bathroom floor, and all he could think was that he needed to get to his feet. Grasping the back of the toilet for leverage, House dragged himself to a standing position with an agonizing effort, bracing himself on one hand as he reached blindly for his cane, which he had dropped somewhere along the way.

Before he could reach it, he felt warm, strong hands at his waist -- and lurched away from them in panic, whirling around and pushing blindly at them, shaking his head, struggling to free himself.

"No... no, don't _touch_ me! Let go of me, _no_!"

A hard hand gripped his throat, silencing his cries and shoving him against the wall with a violent, painful impact. The rough, unyielding hand tilted his chin upward, forcing him to look into the familiar, terrifying eyes of the man who had broken him, smiling down at him with cold, taunting menace in his gaze.

"I told you you'd never be able to beat me," Tritter sneered. "I told you I'd win. There's no way you'll ever forget what I did to you -- and that means that no matter what happens... _I win_."

The hand at his throat tightened cruelly, cutting off his oxygen, and House fought frantically, gasping for breath, flailing and struggling blindly in an attempt to free himself and gain his breath.

_No, no, no..._ he cried out in his mind. _No, don't let him... not like this... don't let him get me again..._

***************************

"_No, don't let him... don't let him get me again_!"

Wilson's heart lurched, his throat throbbing with the tears that streaked his face at House's frantic, fevered plea, almost childlike in its simplicity and desperation. He reached out firm but gentle hands to catch House's flailing wrists, trying to control his blind, panicked struggles long enough to make him understand that he was safe, that the foe he thought he was fighting was, at the moment, imaginary.

"House... House, it's okay... it's just me... you're okay..."

"No, no, please _don't_..."

House's voice was slurred, breathless, exhausted, as he tried to pull away from Wilson's gently restraining hands, though his struggles grew weaker as he collapsed against the wall, his knees giving out beneath him. He still weakly tried to push Wilson away as Wilson pressed in close to his shaken friend, supporting him when he would have fallen to the floor.

"Shhh," Wilson murmured. "It's all right... it's all right, House, you're safe... It's just me..."

At last, House opened his eyes, wild and filled with panic and confusion, to gradually focus on Wilson's face. Blind terror faded into relief and despair, as House lowered his head, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Shhh, come here..."

Wilson whispered soothingly, moving in closer now that it was safe to do so, wrapping protective arms around his friend and sinking to the floor with him as House's strength finally gave out and exhaustion took him to his knees once more.

This time, Wilson was there to support him, to ease him down so that there was no painful impact with the hard tile. Heedless of his carefully chosen clothing, Wilson shifted so that his own back was to the wall, pulling House into his arms and holding him close as he sobbed out the remnants of his panic.

"It's going to be all right, House," he murmured, raising a hand to stroke gently through House's disheveled, sweat-dampened hair. "You're going to be fine. He can't hurt you anymore. You're safe, and you're strong, and you can do this..."

House shook his head, gasping for breath, struggling to regain his composure enough to respond. Realizing that he wanted to speak, Wilson went quiet, patiently waiting for him to get his breath, just holding him and stroking his hair and back in slow, rhythmic motions of reassurance.

Finally, House spoke, his barely audible whisper echoing off the metal walls of the bathroom stall.

"Y-you don't understand. He's still... controlling everything..."

"He's not in control anymore, House," Wilson insisted, shaking his head. "I know it feels that way, but..."

"He just kept... staring at me... the whole time," House continued, heedless of Wilson's words, eyes wide and haunted and focused intently on nothing. "_He_ asked for the recess, Wilson. _He_ did. Just because... because he wanted me to know that he _could_ -- that _he's_ still the one calling the shots."

Wilson frowned, swallowing hard and trying to think of something reassuring to say, in the wake of the realization of House's words – but none of his muddled, furious thoughts were particularly helpful.

Somehow, he was sure, _I'm going to kill that sick bastard_, just wasn't going to cut it.

"I think he... I think he _wants_ to hear it," House whispered. Wilson could feel the shiver that shook his body, and House seemed to huddle unconsciously closer to his friend, instinctively seeking reassurance that he wouldn't have allowed himself to ask for. "I think he... he's going to _enjoy_... hearing me talk about... what he did to me. Hearing me... have to... relive it... again..." He shook his head with a shudder of horror and revulsion. "I... don't think I... can..."

House's breath was now coming in short, urgent gasps, and Wilson could feel his body tensing, on the verge of fresh panic. Feeling helpless in the face of the power of House's trauma, Wilson just held him tight, and did his best to soothe his fears, despite the uselessness he felt.

"Sure you can," he said in a soft, carefully calm voice, swallowing back his own sob. "House... you already have. You've already told your story, several times before. All you have to do is the same thing you've already done..."

"Yeah... but..." House looked up at him, and the lost, terrified look in his eyes made Wilson's heart ache. "... that was... only to you. It's... it's not the same, Wilson. It's not the same... at all. Telling it just to... to you... was hard enough... but it's a walk in the park compared to... compared to this..."

Wilson was quiet, frowning thoughtfully as he considered the painful truth of House's words. His frown deepened slightly, and he met House's eyes with a cautious speculation in his own.

"Maybe... maybe you should… just tell me… again, then."

House frowned in confusion, shaking his head slightly. "What...?"

"Just tell me again... while you're on the witness stand," Wilson explained gently, holding House's gaze intently. "Don't look at him... don't think about him... don't let him get to you, because that's what he's _trying_ to do. He's trying to psych you out so you can't tell your story, and can't put him away. _Don't let him_."

House swallowed hard, lowering his gaze with uncertainty.

"Hey. Look at me," Wilson quietly urged him, and House reluctantly obeyed. "You don't have to let him. When we go back in there... you just don't even look at him. Ignore him completely -- and keep your eyes locked on _me_. Okay? Brooke will ask you about what happened... and you just look at me. Tritter's defense attorney will get up after that, and he'll be trying to trip you up, trying to freak you out and make you panic… and you just look at _me_, and tell _me _the same things you've already told me, all right? Okay? Forget about everybody else, especially Tritter. I won't look away, and you don't either – and I promise you, you _will_ get through this. All right?"

House stared at him, understanding dawning gradually in his eyes, then nodded slowly, hope beginning to surface in his expression.

"That... might actually work..."

"It _has_ to work," Wilson corrected, his voice compassionate but intense as he held House's gaze, speaking in a low, solemn tone. "House... if you can't testify... then we're all dead. Because... if you can't testify, then... then Tritter _will_ walk. If you get up there and tell that jury what he did, tell them the _truth_... then there's no way in the world that he'll get away with this. But if you don't... then he most likely will... and you know as well as I do that if that happens, he _will_ come after us."

Wilson paused, allowing the heavy but necessary truth of his words to sink in before continuing.

"We're already past the point of no return, House. It's too late to reconsider this now. I know you're scared. I know your mind is screaming at you to keep your mouth shut, because of the things he said he'd do to you if you didn't. Well... you already 'didn't'." Wilson's tone was slightly apologetic, but matter-of-fact, as he stated their situation in honest, concise terms that managed to cut through the fog of terror in House's thoughts. "As things stand now, he's planning to make you pay for it if he gets off. So... the only option is to not let him get off. If you don't testify... he's _gonna_ come after you. If you do... he won't be able to."

Wilson gave House a tentative but warm smile, smoothing back House's disheveled hair as he gave a rueful shrug.

"No brainer."

House nodded slowly, looking away as he thought about what Wilson had said -- and the undeniable truth of his argument. Wilson had not tried to soothe his fears with empty platitudes and false promises, but had rather gently but firmly brought him face to face with the reality of the decision he had to make – fold under the pressure of Tritter's intimidation, and allow the man the freedom to continue making his existence a living nightmare; or tell his story to the court, and wrest from Tritter's hands the power to ever touch him or his again.

It was an easy choice, really.

"Just keep your eyes on me," Wilson repeated softly, easing his grip on House's body as he felt his tremors subsiding. "Just stay focused on me and don't let him get to you." He paused, his smile fading into a serious expression as he added, "He knows you can beat him now, House. He knows you're the one with the power – and that's why he's trying so hard to psych you out. Because the only way he can get to you, now, is in your head. But see… that's where he's confused…" Wilson's smile reappeared, shifting into a smirk, his dark eyes dancing with triumph. "… because that's the one place where you _can't _lose."

House tentatively returned his smile, nodding slowly in reluctant acceptance as he drew awkwardly away from Wilson's embrace, looking uncomfortably around him for something on which to brace himself to rise. Wilson slid back and rose easily to his feet, reaching down to pull House up with him, and placing his cane carefully in his hands.

With tenderness and care that brought a fresh lump to House's throat, Wilson led him to the sink outside the stall, dampening some paper towels and giving them to House to wash his face. While House was cleaning up, Wilson took a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall and poured him some cool water to rinse his mouth.

House felt a bit like a child being reassured after a nightmare – but considering that he felt a bit like he was actually _living_ a nightmare, he decided that for the moment, he could tolerate it. He allowed Wilson to fuss over him a few moments more, making sure he was all right and presentable and ready to face the outside world again.

"Okay," Wilson said at last, meeting House's eyes with a concerned question. "Ready?"

"Ready," House echoed with a quiet nod. "Let's do this."


	55. Chapter 55

"I trust you're feeling better, Dr. House?"

The judge's voice was soft but stern, carrying hints of both concern and warning. She gave House a dubiously expectant look as he took his seat on the witness stand once more.

He nodded once, not quite meeting her gaze as he acknowledged her question. "Yes, Your Honor. Much better, thank you."

Wilson barely suppressed a completely inappropriate grin at the irony of House's uncharacteristically polite manner. He was unusually subdued, calm... even respectful. Wilson's tiny half-smile became a grim frown of anger as he thought that if this was what it took to subdue House's rude, arrogant nature, he would quietly and gratefully endure that nature for the rest of his life.

"Ms. Landers, are you ready to proceed?"

Brooke nodded as she paced slowly toward the witness stand, handwritten notes in her hand. She glanced at them briefly before looking up at House, a solemn air of compassion tempering her voice as she proceeded with her questions.

"Dr. House... you were telling us about your first meeting with Mr. Tritter. The two of you... didn't get along, that's correct?"

"That's correct."

"Mr. Tritter wanted you to perform tests you believed to be unnecessary. You refused to do the tests," Brooke reiterated as she paced slowly in front of House's seat, meeting his eyes briefly as she asked, "What happened next?"

House swallowed hard, silent for a long moment, eyes downcast, as he struggled against his own fears, struggled to regain his voice. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, biting his lower lip as he closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself.

"Dr. House?"

Brooke's gently pressing tone drew House from his thoughts, and he looked up with tears of frustration in his eyes, suddenly terrified that even now, he would not be able to go through with it, and all would still be lost.

A soft sound from the quiet audience -- inaudible under ordinary circumstances, barely audible now -- drew House's attention, and he glanced up in the direction from which it had come. Someone had merely cleared their throat, but in the terse silence of the courtroom, the sound echoed, drawing House's attention fully and completely to its source.

_Wilson._

House's eyes locked onto those of his friend, with a shock of clarity and remembrance. A sense of gratitude filled him at Wilson's subtle reminder of the plan they had formed earlier, and he swallowed hard, slowly straightening his shoulders, keeping his eyes on Wilson's as he forced his thoughts back into focus on Brooke's question.

"Dr. House?" Brooke repeated gently. "Please tell the court… what happened when you refused to order further tests on Mr. Tritter."

House took a deep breath, not looking away from Wilson as he answered in a quiet voice of careful calm.

"I… started to leave the room, but… he… kicked my cane as I passed him. Tripped me. I would have fallen, but… I was able to brace myself on the door."

House glanced away momentarily at the surprise he saw on Wilson's face, but took courage from the look of smoldering anger Wilson cast in Tritter's direction. There was a certain comfort in the knowledge that, despite the fact that this was the first Wilson had heard of this particular detail, House still had his full support.

"I… was angry, obviously, and… maybe a little… unsettled. I didn't want him to think that I… I was… intimidated by him, so I… I told him I would treat him after all, and I… needed to take his temperature… rectally, because of the… the nicotine gum he was chewing. I did, and… and then I… I left the room… left him there… to wait for someone else to… find him, and… take the thermometer out…"

Brooke was quiet, patient, barely wincing at the hushed murmur of shocked disapproval from the jury and audience. She had known to expect this somewhat damaging testimony. She and House had discussed it beforehand, agreeing with Eve's advice that, since the story would come out during the trial one way or another, it was better if the jury heard it from House than from Tritter.

"Why did you do that, Dr. House?" Brooke asked him in quiet curiosity.

"Because… I wanted him to know that he… he couldn't just… bully me like he was… like he was trying to do," House explained, his voice halting and hesitant, and his gaze on Wilson faltered a moment. "I wanted to… to _win_," he admitted at last. "To get the… the last word." He swallowed hard, his voice thick and hoarse, barely over a whisper as he continued with a bitterly ironic smile. "Didn't work out… quite the way I'd hoped."

His words were met with a sympathetic nod from Brooke, and varied expressions of mingled disapproval, accusation, and understanding from the other observers.

"How did Mr. Tritter respond to your actions?"

"He… talked to my boss. Demanded an apology." House hesitated, wincing slightly as he admitted, "I refused."

Brooke nodded again. "When was the next time you had any contact with Mr. Tritter?"

"He… pulled me over for… speeding. And… arrested me for… illegal possession of narcotics."

Brooke's tone was gentle, patient, as she asked quietly, "Why were you in possession of illegal narcotics, Dr. House?"

House looked down again, biting his lower lip, before meeting Brooke's eyes briefly, and then returning his gaze to Wilson's. Wilson nodded almost imperceptibly in a silent indication of encouragement and support. House swallowed convulsively, struggling to find the strength to answer the question, painfully aware of how bad the answer would make him appear to the jury. His voice was very soft, subdued, barely audible, as he forced himself to continue at last.

"I'm… a chronic pain patient. And… I'm… dependent on my pain medication. I had… Vicodin on me that I… hadn't been legitimately prescribed. When Tritter and others on the police force searched my home, they… found some pills I'd… hoarded. Just in case. It's… common behavior for… for people who are… addicted to medication."

"What were the charges brought against you?" Brooke asked.

"Possession of narcotics, with intent to distribute," House replied, his voice low and unusually humble. He shifted his gaze to meet Brooke's eyes, the expression in his own earnest and solemn as he added, "There was never any intent to distribute. I may have had too much Vicodin – been taking too much Vicodin – but it was never intended for anything beyond my own personal use."

"And you were acquitted of those charges, is that correct?" Brooke prompted with an encouraging nod, leading him further toward the inevitable and dreaded pinnacle of his testimony.

House nodded. "Yes," he replied a moment later, remembering that he had to speak his answer aloud. "I was found not guilty of all charges."

"When was the next time you saw Mr. Tritter?" Brooke persisted.

House was silent for a long moment, his head lowered as he struggled against his own mounting panic, struggled to find the courage to keep going down the dark and twisting path into the worst of his own memories. Finally, he raised his eyes, but not his head, meeting Wilson's eyes as he forced himself to speak in a low, carefully even voice.

"The night… the night I was… attacked."

Brooke's voice was gentle, patient and reassuring, as she softly requested, "Tell me about that night. Take your time, and tell me, in your own words – what happened that night."

"I was… on my way to my motorcycle, in the… parking garage… and a… a blue car… pulled up beside it. F-five men… got out. Mr. Tritter, and… four others." House swallowed back a sob, blinking away tears as he fought to go on. "I… tried to fight back… knew that… whatever they were going to do… couldn't be good… but… there were… there were just too many of them. They were… too strong. They… took my cane, and… and hit me, and… knocked me down. They… handcuffed me, and… put a… a… bag, or… or something… over my head, so I couldn't… couldn't see… couldn't talk… couldn't… could barely… barely breathe…"

House was silent for a long moment, eyes downcast once more, quietly warring against the suffocating terror of that particular memory. Brooke was tactfully quiet, not pushing him, simply waiting for him to be able to go on. The entire courtroom was utterly silent, waiting breathlessly for the rest of his story – which only seemed to make it harder to continue.

"Tritter… grabbed me, and… and told me to be quiet and n-not fight, or he would… would make it worse for me."

"How did you know that it was the defendant who spoke?" Brooke quietly asked for clarification.

"I r-recognized his voice," House replied, his voice a bit steadier as he considered her question. "I… I knew… I couldn't fight them, not… not like that… so I stopped struggling, and… and they forced me… into the car. They drove for… a long time. At least… I think it was a long time. It felt like a long time. I… couldn't really tell. And then they… dragged me out of the car and… we… we walked for a while… through… woods, I think. The ground was rough, and there were trees, I think, because… because at one point he slammed me into one and… and told me to… to keep up. He… hit me… in my… bad leg… and told me if I couldn't keep up, he'd… make me regret it."

House's breath came in deep, shuddering gasps, his eyes wide and lost as he fought to focus on Wilson's face, and not the dark, terrifying images that filled his mind with such painfully vivid clarity. Wilson was blinking rapidly, his jaw working with repressed emotion, as he unfailingly held his friend's gaze in a wordless display of unwavering support.

"They took me to this… cabin… Tritter told me later it was… his. And… he… he pushed me… onto my knees. That's when he… when he took the hood off, and… and I could see his face again."

"Michael Tritter's face," Brooke clarified softly, glancing toward the jury, who were staring at House, their attention completely arrested by his quietly compelling words.

House nodded slowly. "Yes. He… he said he was gonna… gonna take the cuffs off, so he could… could…" House hesitated, blinking away tears, his face flushing with shame as he lowered his eyes. "He said he was gonna… take my clothes off… and… not to fight him… because… he'd just hurt me worse if I… if I resisted him…" He swallowed hard, fighting for his composure, and only partially succeeding. "I kn-knew what he was going to do, and I… I fought him as soon as the cuffs were off, but… but there were too many of them. They… held me down, and he… t-took my shirt off, and… and cuffed me again. He… hit me, and… told me he was going to… to make me pay for fighting him. They… took off my pants, and… and tied me to… to an overhead pipe."

A visible shudder passed through House's shoulders, and without realizing it, he crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture, head lowered slightly. He swallowed hard, trying in vain to moisten his dry mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and halting.

"He… he beat me… with my… my own cane. He… hit me… so… so many times... I… I thought he was going to… to kill me…"

House's voice trailed off as he shook his head, raising a hand to rest his brow, shielding his eyes from the curious stares of those around him. Fighting back a sob, House struggled to make himself look up at Wilson again, but found that he couldn't find the courage.

Brooke's voice was soft and gentle as she moved in close to the witness stand, waiting a moment before prompting him quietly. "What happened next, Dr. House? After the beating? What did the defendant do next?"

House finally looked up at her face without quite making eye contact, his wide, expressive eyes lost and tormented, flooded with tears. As he looked away from her, his eyes crossed with Wilson's again, and he froze, stunned by the anguish he read on his friend's face – the tears that streaked Wilson's face as he stared back at him. House swallowed slowly, returning his gaze – and somehow drawing strength from it.

"He… took me down from the… the pipe, and… cuffed my hands… in front of me… and… and then, he… he took me… into a bedroom. He put my… my b-belt… around my neck… and held me down… on the bed… He… he…" House's voice was low, intense, but barely a whisper as he concluded, "_he_… _raped me_…"

In slow, halting words, House described in horrifying detail how Tritter had brutalized him, then handed him over to his friends so they could do the same, over and over again, all the while verbally abusing and demeaning him. House told the jury how Tritter had forced him to kneel in front of them, forced him to yield to the oral assault of all four men, and even forced him to say that he wanted it, to beg them for more.

As House described how Tritter had violated him with his knife, and with House's own cane, several members of the audience got up and walked out, visibly ill, while the jury obviously fought with their own reactions. Some were crying, others hiding their faces in horrified disbelief. House's voice grew stronger, though his face was stained with unheeded tears as he kept his gaze on Wilson and told how Tritter had driven him out into the middle of nowhere, murdered his cohort simply to terrorize him into silence, and further menaced and tormented him until he was certain that House wouldn't dare say a word to anyone about what had happened.

"He… h-held the gun to my head, and… and he told me… if I talked… to anyone…" House struggled to get the words out, blinking back fresh tears, "… he'd… he'd kill me, and… he'd kill… anyone I told. He said he'd… he'd do to them… what he did to me, and… and he'd… make me… make me watch. Make sure they… they hated me… knew it was my fault… before they… before they died…"

His words were met only by the shocked silence of his listeners, and House finally lowered his head again, shaking it slightly in despair. When he spoke again, it was unclear whether his words were intended for the jury, or for his listening best friend on whom his attention was focused… or only for himself.

"I don't know… maybe it _was_ my fault," he whispered. "Maybe… if I'd been... less of a jerk… if I'd… treated him better in the clinic. Maybe if I wasn't… wasn't an addict… if I'd… if I'd been more careful… watched more closely… maybe… this wouldn't have happened…"

Brooke flinched slightly at his words, hesitating a moment, before reaching out and resting a tentative hand on House's hand, white-knuckled and clenched around the bar in front of him. Her piercing gaze turned toward the jury as she made a statement of firm conviction, both for their benefit and for House's.

"There's always some way in which a person can be made to believe that the assault was their fault – but rape is _never _the fault of the victim. _Never._"

She proceeded to continue her questioning, asking House about the events surrounding his recovery – the discovery of his bike outside his apartment, the other threats Tritter had made, and finally, the events of the incriminating recording. House gradually seemed to recover his composure as the questions led him gradually away from the most traumatic of his thoughts, though the jury was still in tears by the end of his testimony.

When House had finally told his story in full, Brooke stood in front of him, catching his gaze and giving him an encouraging, appreciative smile.

"Thank you for your time, and your courage, Dr. House."

She nodded to the judge before turning toward the defense attorney. House tensed automatically, steeling himself for what was to come, well aware that the worst of his ordeal was likely yet ahead of him, as the defense attorney glanced eagerly in his direction with a disarming yet somehow predatory smile.

"Your witness."


	56. Chapter 56

As the defense attorney started toward him, House steadied himself with an effort, trying to prepare himself mentally for the verbal assault he knew he was about to face -- but there was no time. Tritter's attorney was already headed toward him, a cool smile of predatory expectation on his lips.

Brooke's questions had been as gently and patiently delivered as possible, and they had still left House's dignity in tatters, left him a trembling, terrified wreck on the verge of a massive panic attack. Tritter's attorney was almost certainly going to make it one of his goals to make House fall apart on the stand, to shatter his credibility, confuse him and make him contradict himself.

House wasn't sure what was left of his defenses would be able to withstand that attack.

"Dr. House," the attorney began with a disarming smile of false sympathy. "No offense... because I know you've been through a terrible ordeal... but... your description of your initial encounter with my client seems to indicate that _you_ assaulted _him_ when you first met. Sticking a thermometer up a man's rectum and leaving it there, leaving him helpless and humiliated with no means of escaping the situation without further humiliation – that's sexual assault in and of itself. Wouldn't you say that's a fair conclusion to make?"

House swallowed hard, lowering his gaze in embarrassment. "I... I guess you could say that," he admitted quietly. "But... there was nothing… sexual… about that. He… he kicked my cane out from under me. And... what he did later... doesn't even compare with..."

"You claim that your admitted assault on my client was in response to his kicking your cane," the attorney cut him off smoothly. "Do you think it's possible that, supposing my client _was_ guilty of the crimes of which you accuse him, it might have been a reaction to _your_ violation of _him_?"

"I... I think it was," House agreed hesitantly, struggling to process the question, aware of what the attorney was trying to do, and yet unable to think of a way to stop him. "I already said... if I hadn't... already had the… confrontation with him in the clinic, then maybe... maybe he wouldn't have done... what he did... but... that doesn't make it..."

"So... you were actually guilty of sexual assault on my client, far prior to the alleged attack you experienced," the attorney concluded, "making you guilty of the same crime of which you've accused my client."

"No, it... it wasn't the same..." House insisted, hesitant and trembling, his stomach clenched painfully as he swallowed back the sick rush of bile that filled his throat at the attorney's suggestion. "I didn't... I mean..."

As he looked away from the attorney, House's eyes caught Wilson's again, and he was reminded of their plan. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on Wilson's intent, anxious gaze. Wilson nodded slightly in encouragement, and House squared his shoulders slightly, drawing in a trembling breath before looking back to the attorney.

"You have no idea," he stated in a soft but steadier voice, "how... how powerless it can feel to be... disabled, and... to have that disability... exploited, by someone... bigger, and... and stronger. To be... virtually at the mercy of anyone who decides they want to... to bully you. To... prove their power over you." He was silent for a moment before adding quietly, "Like... like your client did to me..."

"What was it that the district attorney's been stressing so strongly all day?" the attorney interrupted House again, turning toward the jury with a pointedly questioning look. "There is _never_ any excuse for sexual assault? The victim is _never_ at fault?" He looked back toward House, his expression hardening with accusation. "You, Dr. House, have admitted to such an assault. My client, on the other hand, is presumed innocent."

House opened his mouth to protest, but the attorney was already moving on.

"Also according to your own testimony, you're addicted to the painkiller Vicodin. Is that correct, Dr. House?"

House hesitated, looking down again as he wrestled to give an answer he had not yet completely admitted to himself as truth. Finally, he replied in a quiet, subdued voice.

"Yes. That's right."

"By your own admission, you're almost constantly under the influence of narcotics. Isn't it possible that in the midst of the trauma of the attack you've described – blindfolded, disoriented from being dragged around and manhandled and held down, and unable to even face your attackers for so much of the time in question -- while under the influence of the drugs to which you've admitted to being addicted -- you _might_ have been confused as to exactly who was there? Isn't it possible that you made a mental association with the man _you_ had assaulted in a similar fashion, and, in a reaction to your own guilt, your subconscious concocted the idea that my client was the one assaulting you?"

"There was nothing _similar_…" House's words were choked with emotion, and he stopped for a long moment, struggling to regain his composure. "No," House insisted at last, his voice quiet and intense, shaking his head emphatically. "No, that's not possible. I know who I saw. I know who... who _raped _me. The Vicodin... doesn't impair my thought processes. It just... suppresses my pain and therefore _clarifies_ my thought processes. I work better... _think_ better... when I'm on it. There is no way that it was _anyone_ but Tritter who..."

"Any addict would claim that his drug addiction doesn't impair his mental capabilities," the attorney pointed out with a knowing, dismissive smirk. "The truth is, Dr. House – it's impossible for you to judge the amount of impairment you experience due to your drug use, while under the influence of those drugs."

House opened his mouth to protest, but the attorney continued without hesitation.

"So, on the night of the infamous video recording the state has introduced as evidence… I'm confused about a couple of things, Dr. House." The attorney frowned, the confusion in his expression clearly false, a hint of smug amusement in his eyes as he shook his head slightly and went on. "If you were _so certain_ that my client was responsible for the brutal assault you've described – so sure that he was the man who tortured and beat and raped you for _hours_ – why would you ever agree to such a plan? Why would you even let him into your apartment at all, instead of, say – calling for help? Trying to fight him, or get away, or… or _anything_ but planning a scenario which involved you alone in a room with your rapist?"

"It was the only way," House explained, hesitant, his voice trembling as he fought against the painful mental images invoked by the attorney's vivid words – deliberately chosen to have just that effect, House suspected. "We had to do something to get… solid evidence against him. We were afraid that… if I just… went to the police… they wouldn't believe me."

"Right. That 'thin blue line' and all. Concealment, conspiracy, secret incidents of police brutality – yeah," the attorney sneered. "I saw that made-for-tv movie, too."

"Objection…"

"I'm moving on, Your Honor," the defense attorney spoke up quickly. "I apologize if that was out of line." He turned back toward House and continued with a sly smile. "You know what I think might make a more believable explanation for your actions? I think you'd be a lot more willing to let the man in the video into your home, if you knew beyond all doubt that it wasn't someone who would actually hurt you. And, if you actually believe that my client did what you say he did, well – that wouldn't be him, that's for sure. I think… you hired someone to pretend to be my client, to play through that little scene on the tape and gather false evidence against Mr. Tritter. Didn't you?"

"No," House insisted emphatically, shaking his head. "No, I didn't. Tritter is the man in the video…"

"Convenient how his face never appears in the video, isn't it?" the attorney pointed out.

"The position of the camera made that impossible," House explained.

"Yes, again… convenient," the attorney observed. "Almost as convenient as the garbled and unclear audio that accompanies the rather dubious video. Perfect set-up to conceal the fact that your alleged attacker in the video was nothing more than a hired actor…"

"No, that's not true," House argued, his voice trembling, agitated. "_His_ audio might have been unclear because of the way he was moving, his distance in relation to the camera. Mine, on the other hand, was perfectly clear, the entire time. Did I _sound_ like I was acting? I wasn't." House blinked back tears of anger, frustration and humiliation that sprang to his eyes. "I was terrified out of my mind. I thought he might… beat me, or… or kill me before my friends could get to me and stop him, or find out they were there and kill all of us – but not before he _raped_ me again... It was the most difficult and terrifying thing I've ever had to do in my life – but it was the _only way_."

The attorney was quiet for a moment, taking a step back and surveying House, pretending to be impressed with his arresting words, the undeniable conviction and sincerity in his voice. Then, he shook his head skeptically, arms crossed over his chest.

"Again, Dr. House," he remarked quietly. "Very convincing. But then – you're quite the accomplished actor yourself, aren't you? With a rather… entertaining history of your own little deceptions…"

The attorney proceeded to run through a rather damaging litany describing various dubious incidents during the course of House's career. House did his best to explain his motivations in each situation, but with every example the attorney brought up, he felt his hopes sink a little further, well aware that the attorney was succeeding in casting doubt on his honesty.

"I wasn't acting," House insisted at last, humiliated by the very suggestion. "I wasn't faking the… the documented injuries…"

"Documented by your best friend," the attorney interjected.

House flinched slightly. He had expected that point to be brought up sooner or later. He glanced at Wilson again, finding the support he needed in Wilson's fiercely indignant, protective gaze. He knew that if he could have done so without further damaging his friend's case, Wilson would have had a thing or two to say to the cruel, unscrupulous attorney.

House's jaw set with determination, and he sat up a little straighter, rallying as he decided that he would just have to say those things _for_ Wilson.

"Documented by my _primary physician_," House corrected. "It _happened_. I was raped. I was… was beaten so badly that there wasn't a single part of my body that wasn't… wasn't bruised. I still haven't recovered from all of the physical injuries inflicted that night." He hesitated, looking downward again, swallowing hard as he added more softly, "Or… the other injuries, for that matter. It _happened_, and there's no denying that, no matter how many Vicodin I take a day, or how many medical rules and protocols I've broken, or how many authority figures I've managed to piss off. This isn't about any of that. This is about… what _he_…" House summoned all his courage to point toward Tritter, meeting the face of his worst nightmare for the briefest of instants before looking at the attorney again. "… did to _me_."

House was quiet for a moment, looking down again, lips parted as he gathered the strength to continue, then finally went on in a voice that was trembling and uncertain, yet filled with the strength of conviction that came with _knowing_ he spoke the truth.

"What happened to me – that's a fact. And if Michael Tritter _wasn't_ the one who did it to me, getting some kind of half-assed revenge against him for a couple of half-deserved charges that didn't even stick would be the _last_ thing on my mind. I'd be trying to take down the bastard who _did_ do it – which is _exactly_ what I'm trying to do."

House looked toward the jury, his gaze open and expressive and honest as he stated softly, "That's all I'm trying to do – to get the man who... who took away… my sense of safety, and… and dignity… and self-worth… put into prison where he can't… can't do any more damage to my life… or anyone else's. I just want… I just want to feel _safe_ again – and I can't… can't ever feel that way… as long as the man who… who violated me… is free."

The defense attorney attempted to recover control of the situation, but there was little he could do following House's sincere, impassioned words. He continued with his accusations and aspersions on House's character and credibility, but it was clear that the jury was already lost to him.

When House left the stand, his face was streaked with tears, and his shaking legs barely had the strength to carry him back to his seat; but he returned to that seat with a clear sense of victory, knowing that he had done his best, told the truth – and done everything in his power to condemn Tritter to the fate he deserved.

As he collapsed into his seat next to Wilson, suddenly shaking all over with the release of the tension of what he had just done, Wilson unashamedly wrapped a supportive arm around his shoulders, leaning in close to speak softly into his ear, barely suppressing a triumphant grin.

"You did it," he whispered with obvious awe and admiration. "You got him, House. He's _done_."


	57. Chapter 57

Following House's testimony, Brooke called several other witnesses to the stand to speak for the side of the prosecution; and their testimonies only seemed to cement in the minds of the jury the certainty of Tritter's guilt that House's impassioned words had inspired.

Jenna's brother testified about his involvement in the assault on House, and what Tritter had told him was going to happen as opposed to what _had_ eventually happened, confirming in the minds of the jury that Tritter had indeed masterminded the entire event.

A voice expert was called, who verified that one of the voices on the tape was undeniably a complete match with the vocal sample taken from House; and the other was more than 99% certain to be Tritter's voice, with only a bare minimal possibility that it was someone else's voice.

The stories of Tritter's other victims had helped to give House the confidence to come forward; but in the end, their testimonies were ruled inadmissible by the court. Since Tritter had never been proven in court to be responsible for their injuries, they were not allowed to testify as to their mere suspicions.

The others who were involved in the attack were, of course, unwilling to testify. None of them had been offered a deal of any kind, and therefore, they were still maintaining their innocence, hoping for favorable results in their own trials.

Fortunately, none of those testimonies seemed necessary by the time Brooke was finished.

Once Brooke had called her last witness, the defense attorney rose and began to present Tritter's side of the case.

They had a vocal expert of their own, who stressed the fact that it was indeed possible that it was not Tritter's voice on the tape. Of course, the margin of possibility the defense's expert had decided upon was slightly higher than the one Brooke's expert had given, but still, House hoped, not high enough to convince the jury that he had hired a fake to help him frame Tritter.

House's other attackers were led into the courtroom and onto the stand in chains, where they testified as to having no knowledge of any such conspiracy as the one House claimed had occurred. They lauded Tritter, citing his exemplary career history, claiming that in all the years they had worked with him, his activities had always been completely above board, and claiming that the man was as innocent as they themselves claimed to be of any wrongdoing.

Of course, House noted with a grim sense of satisfaction -- the prison jumpsuits and handcuffs lent their testimony a certain anti-credibility that he found quite encouraging.

Finally, the defense had only one witness left to testify.

"The defense calls the defendant, Michael Tritter, to the stand."

House's stomach lurched, and he stared down at the floor, instantly cowed by Tritter's subtle glance in his direction as he rose to his feet and started toward the witness stand.

"It's all right," Wilson assured him in a hushed, soothing tone. "He can't hurt you..."

"I can't do this," House muttered, reaching for his cane, blindly leaning toward the aisle in a panicked haste to escape. "I can't stay here for this... I've got to go..."

"Okay," Wilson whispered with a ready nod, starting to rise. "Whatever you need is fine. There's no reason why you have to stay..."

But Wilson froze on the edge of his seat, waiting, as House stopped before rising, staring up at the witness stand through wide eyes, transfixed with a mixture of fear -- and a reluctant but fierce curiosity that Wilson instantly recognized.

"I... I have to know, though," House murmured, not taking his eyes off Tritter. "I have to know... what he's going to say – how he's going to explain this away."

"Are you sure?" Wilson asked in a low, concerned whisper, studying House's expression. "Because you don't have to stay if you don't want to..."

"I... I'm sure," House decided after a long moment's hesitation. "I... I need to stay. If I don't, I… I know I'll regret it later."

House watched with a sense of mingled dread and morbid fascination -- and rising indignation and anger -- as the defense attorney asked Tritter about his initial meeting with House, and Tritter denied ever kicking his cane at all.

"He was just upset because I questioned his omniscience as an all-powerful doctor," Tritter concluded with a coolly derisive smirk. "He didn't like the fact that I questioned his refusal to do any actual _tests_ to determine my condition -- and he retaliated by assaulting me with the thermometer."

"What about the drug charges against Dr. House?" the defense attorney continued. "Was that your own retaliation against what he did to you in the clinic?"

"Not at all," Tritter replied with calm confidence, shaking his head slowly. "I coincidentally happened to stop Dr. House for speeding -- going somewhere around twenty miles an hour _over_ the speed limit, by the way -- and when he was belligerent and resistant with me, I did a routine pat-down search and discovered that he was in possession of an excessive amount of prescription drugs."

"I see. So, all the charges were legitimate, then."

"Completely," Tritter confirmed with a nod.

"In that case, I'd assume you were a bit frustrated when Dr. House was acquitted of those charges."

Tritter shrugged. "Not really. That's the nature of the legal system. It's much easier in this country to be acquitted of a crime you have committed than it is to be convicted of a crime you haven't -- and that's a _good_ thing. You win some, you lose some, but that's the way the system works. The verdict isn't up to me, and it _shouldn't_ be. Once Dr. House was acquitted, well -- that was the end of it as far as I was concerned."

"Then... how do you explain the accusations Dr. House has brought against you?" Tritter's attorney asked with a thoughtfully curious expression. "We know that he was indeed brutally assaulted -- but why would he accuse _you_?"

"Well..." Tritter's smile faded into an expression of false concern as he pretended to consider the question before meeting his attorney's eyes sadly. "... I couldn't venture to say what was going through his mind. I've never been through that kind of – of mental and emotional damage myself, but I have dealt with many victims of rape, however, in the course of my career... and I would guess that, considering the brutality of Dr. House's experience, he's likely suffering from PTSD and rape trauma syndrome. The only thing I can think is that he somehow transferred his guilt over what he did to me, and that manifested itself into this... this very sad and misguided delusion that I was the one who did this to him."

"_Are_ you the one who did this to him, Mr. Tritter?" the defense attorney asked in a kind, patient voice.

Tritter's voice was clear and firm as he leaned into the microphone and stated, "No, I am not."

House's face was flushed with shame at Tritter's patronizing, derisive suggestions about his emotional and mental health. Once or twice during his testimony, Tritter glanced in House's direction in an accidental-on-purpose sort of way, and House found himself immediately forced to look away, sick with fear under the other man's subtle scrutiny.

Still, despite his fears, he managed to stay in the courtroom, fighting back his impulse to flee, as Tritter gave his utterly false testimony -- and that was, all things considered, quite an accomplishment.

Brooke got up to cross-examine Tritter, and House immediately began to feel a little better as she began easily pointing out the glaring holes in Tritter's story. She pointed out the fact that Tritter had no alibi to explain his whereabouts on the night of the attack, no supporting witnesses besides the other men accused of the same crime, as well as the overwhelming physical evidence of his guilt which she had already presented to the court.

Within minutes, Tritter's calm, smug assurance had been replaced by tense frustration, his ice blue eyes smoldering with suppressed resentment and fury as he visibly struggled for control.

Brooke seized onto his obvious weakness, deliberately riling him as she questioned him about his encounter with House in the clinic, recalling what House had told her about what he had said and done to agitate the detective. She recounted those things to Tritter, feeling a sense of satisfaction that she was on the right track when she saw the flash of barely suppressed fury in his eyes at the memory.

"He wasn't showing you the proper respect due your position, was he, Mr. Tritter?"

Tritter frowned. "It had nothing to do with..."

"Don't you just hate that kind of attitude? That mindset doctors get that they somehow know more than everyone else around them?"

Tritter shook his head. "That's beside the point. Yes, that's frustrating, but it has nothing to do with what happened…"

"Wasn't it just infuriating to you that he refused to acknowledge your authority?" Brooke persisted, a mocking note of amusement to her voice. "After twenty years of public service, you've earned a little respect -- and Dr. House wasn't giving it to you. And you're not the kind of man who likes being disrespected, are you, Mr. Tritter?"

"That has nothing to do with anything!" Tritter snapped. "I've been falsely accused of a crime I haven't committed. That's the point, here... not the way I felt about how House talked to me..."

"But you _did_ feel some way about it, didn't you?" Brooke pressed. "You were offended... angry... righteously indignant. And then, on top of it all, he adds injury to insult with the humiliation of leaving you in the exam room, humiliatingly exposed, with no recourse but to seek out the assistance of a _stranger_ to remove a thermometer from your rectum. I don't know about you, Mr. Tritter, but that would make me mad enough to hurt someone."

"I didn't hurt him."

"But you _wanted_ to... didn't you?"

"Who _wouldn't_ want to?" Tritter snapped back at her in frustration. "Who wouldn't want to show that arrogant little prick that he couldn't get away with abusing his power like that? Who wouldn't want to take back their dignity by taking a piece of his? He doesn't get to just _treat_ people like that!"

Brooke was quiet for a long moment, allowing Tritter's unintentional outburst to sink into the minds of the stunned, horrified jurors, who were staring at Tritter with varying expressions of disgust... and rising certainty.

"No," Brooke agreed softly at last. "No one gets to abuse their power and steal away people's dignity like that. No one but _you_. Isn't that right?"

"I didn't _do_ anything!" Tritter insisted. "Just because I _wanted_ to get back at him doesn't mean that I did!"

"No," Brooke conceded, her smirk slowly forming again on her lips as she turned halfway toward the jury. "No... but the video recording of you harassing and threatening your victim for a second time -- the victim's blood on the knife found in your possession -- those things _do_ mean that you did."

Brooke turned to face the judge, giving Tritter a contemptuous glare before stating with clear confidence, "No further questions, Your Honor."

Brooke returned to her seat with an air of surety, casting a bright, encouraging smile in House's direction as she sat down -- and for good reason. She had pressed Tritter into revealing a glimpse of his true nature to the jury, as well as reminding them of the reasons why there was little doubt as to his guilt.

It was quite clear that she had won.

The jury appeared to be utterly convinced.

"Does the defense have any more witnesses?"

The judge turned toward Tritter's side of the room with an expectant look, and the defense attorney rose slowly to his feet. His expression was dark with frustration and reluctant resignation as he replied quietly.

"No, Your Honor. The defense rests."

"All right. If there are no further witnesses, and no further pieces of evidence to be admitted..." The judge waited, allowing time for either attorney to interrupt her, but neither did. "... then we will dismiss. Reconvene tomorrow morning at nine a.m. for closing statements."


	58. Chapter 58

House sat in his usual seat in the courtroom, surrounded by his supportive friends, aware on an intellectual level that he was completely safe -- for the moment. His stomach felt as if it had been tied into knots, roiling within him as he tried to calm the rapid pounding of his heart and focus on what was happening.

Before this day was over, Tritter's fate would be decided.

Brooke faced the jury, pacing slowly in front of them in silence, waiting until their full attention was focused on her to speak at last. When she spoke, however, her words came as a visible surprise to her listeners -- all except for House and his friends, who had been warned beforehand about the tactics she planned to use.

"Dr. Gregory House... is a monumental jerk," Brooke stated quietly, meeting the eyes of each juror in turn. "He's uncivil and disrespectful, often downright rude, in his professional and social settings. He isn't a well-liked man. He's crude and insulting and utterly self-absorbed. He's been known to lie to and manipulate the people around him in order to get what he wants. And as if all this wasn't bad enough -- he's an admitted drug addict."

She was quiet for a moment, allowing her words to sink in, and although he had been prepared for what she would say, House found that he couldn't raise his eyes from his lap, unable to face the jury for fear of what he might see on their faces.

"And none of that," Brooke continued with firm conviction in her voice, "makes him deserving of the brutality and sadism that was inflicted upon him by the defendant."

A couple of the jurors nodded slowly in silent agreement with her statement, all of their expressions troubled and thoughtful.

"The defense has tried to make this trial about the kind of person that Dr. House is -- about his social and professional problems, as well as his personal issues with addiction. The truth is, there's a lot more to Dr. House than that – a lot of _positive_ attributes of which you have not been made aware. No one has mentioned the brilliant diagnostician, the dedicated physician who refuses to stop until he knows he's done _every last bit_ that he can do for his patients. But that doesn't really matter either. That is not what these proceedings have been about. No matter what kind of a person Dr. House is, he is, in this case -- a _victim_. He has been raped and tortured and beaten and terrorized in ways that most of us will thankfully never have to experience -- and no one _should_ have to experience the suffering he's endured. Dr. House's problems -- who he is as a person -- is utterly irrelevant to this trial."

She was quiet for a moment, silently gauging the jury's reactions to her words, nodding once in satisfaction when it appeared that her words were getting through as she intended.

"What I will ask you to focus on now, instead of the distraction the defense has offered, is the kind of person that _Michael Tritter_ has been revealed to be throughout the course of these proceedings -- because that's what this trial is really intended to uncover. Is Michael Tritter the kind of man capable of the kind of atrocities Dr. House has endured?"

Brooke proceeded to go through the evidence against Tritter one more time for the jury, reminding them of the video, the knife, the witnesses who had declared that they had personally seen and heard his cruelty, and finally, the brief glimpse of his frightening rage that he had revealed to them during his own testimony.

As Brooke spoke, House glanced toward Tritter, swallowing hard, his mouth dry with an instinctive fear as he found himself wondering how Tritter was reacting to her accusations. He shuddered at the cold intensity he read in Tritter's ice blue eyes, locked onto Brooke, following her every movement as she spoke to the jury. House found himself half-expecting the man to come around the table in front of him and attack her.

Unexpectedly, Tritter turned his head slightly, his eyes locking onto House's. The detective's lips twitched in the slightest hint of a suppressed smile, and he gave House an almost imperceptible wink. House's stomach dropped. He suddenly felt horribly sick, fighting back a hot rush of bile that rose in his throat as he lowered his gaze quickly, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture.

"It's all right," Wilson whispered, his eyes never leaving Brooke as he casually placed his arm along the back of the bench on which they were sitting so that his hand rested reassuringly on House's shoulder. "He can't hurt you. Are you _hearing_ this?" There was a quiet triumph in Wilson's voice. "She's _killing _him. He doesn't stand a chance. After today -- you'll never have to even see him again. He'll be going to prison for a long, long time."

House nodded hurriedly, struggling to focus his attention on Brooke again.

"Michael Tritter is a _very_ dangerous man. He has made it perfectly clear, through the videotaped evidence and the testimony of those who've witnessed his threats and intimidations -- if he is released, he _will_ attempt retaliation against his victim for coming forward. He used that threat to gain Dr. House's silence for a long time following the attack, and he used it again, when he terrorized his victim _in his own home_, threatening him not only with death, but with further sexual suffering and degradation as well, if he told anyone what Tritter did to him."

Brooke glanced toward House, her solemn eyes softening with compassion and concern before she looked back toward the jury.

"It was a very brave thing, what Dr. House did in coming forward to bring his attacker to justice. He could have let Mr. Tritter's threats keep him intimidated -- could have just kept his mouth shut and not told anyone about what happened. But he didn't. He came forward." She paused, meeting the eyes of the jurors again, one by one.

"Now... it's up to you to decide... whether or not he's going to regret that decision. You hold in your hands the power to send a message -- to let Dr. House, Mr. Tritter, this entire community know that the victim's best defense… is _breaking the silence_. Dr. House came forward because -- as he told you in his own words -- he wanted to feel _safe_ again. You have the power to make that happen -- to give him back his security, his safety... and maybe even a little bit of his dignity."

Her expression darkened as she continued, "Or... you have the power to send a very different message. You have the power to allow his rapist to walk free – free to hurt him, or someone else, again. You have the power to tell current and future victims of sexual assault that the best thing they can do is to keep silent -- because if they come forward... no one will believe them, anyway. They'll have their character, their entire lives, dragged through the mud before the eyes of the world -- and in the end... it won't matter. No one will help them. You have the power to tell Dr. House... that he has to remain a victim... forever."

"And now," she went on, pacing slowly again, "you have a decision to make. Which message do you want to send? The power is in your possession, to place back into the hands of the victim -- or the abuser. Make your choice."

Brooke surveyed the jury for a long, tense moment, privately pleased to see that several jurors were in tears, before she turned toward the judge, her expression solemn and resigned as she nodded and stated quietly, "The state rests."

House didn't realize he had tensed in apprehension as the defense attorney rose to give his closing argument -- not until he felt Wilson's arm around his shoulders tighten briefly in a comforting gesture of reassurance.

"Almost done," he whispered soothingly. "We're almost finished."

House nodded, drawing in a deep, shaky breath of cool air, struggling to fight back the rising feeling of nausea in his throat and stomach. He just wanted this to be over. As well as Brooke's argument had gone, he was still terrified that the defense would be able to paint him in such a negative light with their closing argument that Tritter would end up free – and he and his friends would end up dead.

It soon became apparent that he needn't have worried.

"One thing the prosecuting attorney has said, I agree with," the defense attorney began, facing the jury. "For the victim of a rape to come forward and speak out about their experience is indeed a very brave act. By doing so, such a person can prevent others from having to endure the same things that happened to them. They can get a dangerous rapist off the streets and bring them to justice. Yes... coming forward and telling the truth is a very brave thing to do."

He paused, his brow creasing in a disapproving frown as he continued, "Coming forward and _lying_... making a false accusation against an innocent man... is a very different thing to do entirely. It distracts the focus of the authorities from finding the true attacker, and puts other people at risk of being attacked while time is wasted in trying an innocent person in their place -- and it calls into question the reality of whether or not the alleged 'victim' was really attacked at all. After all, this whole thing seems much more like a petty act of revenge than a quest for justice -- and who's thinking about getting back at someone who arrested him -- on completely legitimate charges, no less -- in the wake of a violent attack such as Dr. House has described?"

Wilson smirked slightly beside House, leaning in to whisper almost gleefully, "Is he on Tritter's side, or on ours?"

House couldn't suppress a slight smile at that, recognizing the fortunate truth of Wilson's observation. "Hard to tell," he agreed in a low whisper. "I'm not sure exactly what argument he's trying to make -- and strangely enough, I don't think _he's_ sure, either."

"Because he doesn't have one, and by now he has to know it," Wilson pointed out, the humor in his voice replaced with grim satisfaction. "At this point, they've got nothing left. He's just grasping at straws."

The rest of the defense attorney's closing argument was just as weak, disjointed, and confusing as the first part of it, leaving the jury shaking their heads and frowning instead of nodding with tears in their eyes. By the time his speech was finished, the attorney barely seemed to be trying at all anymore. He returned to his seat with an air of defeat, not even looking at Tritter, who was glaring at him in repressed outrage and fury at the obvious failure of his argument.

"All right. This concludes this portion of these proceedings," the judge declared, surveying the entire courtroom. "At this time, the jury will be dismissed to quarters in order to deliberate on a verdict. All parties directly interested in this matter will be notified when that verdict is reached and before it is announced. Until that time -- you're dismissed."

House sat there for a long moment as the observers filed out of the room, the judge retreated to her quarters, and Tritter was led away to the holding cell where he was to be kept until the verdict came back. The sheer release of knowing that they had done everything they could do, and were finally finished, manifested itself in violent tremors that shook through his arms and legs, as he braced his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands.

"It's all right," Cuddy whispered, leaning slightly across Eve, who was seated beside House. "It's over. It's over, now."

House didn't respond, didn't raise his eyes – just shook his head slowly in denial.

"No," he whispered at last without looking up. "No… it's not. Not yet."

As House gradually recovered from the shock of the trial's impending conclusion, the others began to discuss their plans for the rest of the day while they made their way slowly out of the courtroom. Wilson and Cuddy both felt that the deliberations could take a long time, and it was probably a good idea to go home and wait for the call to return.

No one ventured to speculate aloud as to what the results of the trial might be. The dark fears they held seemed too cruel to mention within House's hearing – and an instinctive superstition seemed to warn against voicing their confidence as to the case Brooke had made, for fear of somehow jinxing the whole thing.

House didn't want to leave at all – not until he knew that it was really finished.

"Let's just wait… a little while," he suggested quietly, sitting on a bench outside the courtroom between Cuddy and Wilson. "Let's just see what happens. If it takes… too long… we can go, but… but let's just stay a little while."

House's instincts proved accurate less than an hour later when his cell phone rang, and he saw that the caller was Brooke, who had probably assumed that they had left. House swallowed hard, eyes wide as he stared at her name on the caller ID for a long time, almost long enough for the phone to stop ringing.

Finally, he shook himself out of his stupor and hit the receive button, holding the phone to his ear with a trembling hand.

"It's time," Brooke stated in a voice of barely bridled excitement. "We have a verdict."


	59. Chapter 59

As they headed quickly back toward the courtroom, House's mind raced with swirling, muddled thoughts, none clear, all contradicting each other, and nearly drowned out by the pounding of his own heart. When they reached the courtroom door, and he watched Wilson's hand move to open it, one thought broke through the cacophony that filled his mind.

_This is it. After today -- we'll know. He'll be in prison -- or he'll be free, to come after me again. This is it -- the moment all of this has been leading up to -- and I'm _not ready_..._

Overwhelmed, suddenly House found that he could not breathe. The edges of his vision began to go gray, and he felt his knees weaken beneath him. Wilson's strong arm was all at once wrapped around his back, under his arms, holding him up, and Wilson's dark eyes searched his with concern.

"Hey... you okay? House?"

"Yeah," House replied breathlessly, nodding his head in uncertain affirmation, his gaze slightly averted in a vain attempt to hide his near-panic from Wilson. "Yeah, I'm... I'm fine..."

_He's going to be acquitted... he's paid off the jury, or managed to make me look bad enough that they don't care what he did, and he's going to get off, and he's going to come after me and..._

"House... it's gonna be okay," Wilson assured him gently, steadying him with his other hand on his arm, seeking his gaze until House reluctantly met his eyes. "It's going to be fine, House. There is _no way_ that they haven't returned a conviction. A verdict this fast -- that's all it can mean. It didn't take them long to decide, because the evidence was too strong. It's a conviction, and he's going to prison. Okay?"

House nodded again, swallowing hard, his eyes downcast in embarrassment as spectators edged past them through the open doorway into the courtroom, a few of them not bothering to hide the curious stares they cast in his direction.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay, I'm fine. Let's... let's go."

Wilson was unconvinced – _Because he's not a moron_, House ruefully reminded himself – but nevertheless, he accepted the words with a sigh, his arm around House's back tightening slightly to partially support him as he led the way into the courtroom and to their usual seats.

"All rise," the bailiff called out in his authoritative monotone, announcing the judge's arrival. "Court is now in session."

"Be seated," the judge ordered calmly, tapping her gavel against the small pad on her desk as she glanced around the courtroom. "We are here to receive the decision of this court in regards to the case of the state versus Michael Tritter. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

The foreman stood, holding the judge's gaze as he nodded and declared solemnly, "We have, Your Honor."

The bailiff approached the jury stand to take the folded sheet of paper in the foreman's hand, and House felt certain that the panicked racing of his heart had to be audible amidst the tense silence that filled the room. His mouth was dry, his throat convulsing as he struggled to fight back the sharp wave of nausea that filled it.

The bailiff carried the verdict back to the judge, who took it from his hand and unfolded it, showing no visible reaction as she read the words written there, then folded it again and handed it back to the bailiff. He in turn took it back to the foreman, who took it as the bailiff returned to his post.

House felt as if he couldn't catch his breath, and felt his vision blurring again. He closed his eyes, lowering his head as he swallowed hard, fighting back his physical reaction to the fear and uncertainty of the overwhelming moment. Suddenly, he was _sure _that Tritter was going to be found not guilty.

_Please... please, no..._

"Mr. Foreman," the judge addressed him in a curt, formal tone, "will you please read the verdict?"

"Yes, Your Honor." The foreman lifted the sheet of paper, opening his mouth to speak -- and House had to fight past the roaring in his ears to hear the words he said. "On the charge of first degree kidnapping with special circumstances... we find the defendant... guilty."

House felt something within him collapse, and suddenly, he was shaking violently, the rest of the foreman's words an indistinguishable hum as he leaned forward, resting his head in his trembling hands.

"On the charge of first degree rape with special circumstances... we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of conspiracy to commit kidnapping and sexual assault... we find the defendant guilty."

The judge nodded in satisfaction which she made only a token effort to conceal, facing forward again to address the defendant. Around him, House heard the muted exaltation of his friends -- Wilson's whispered, "_Yes_!" and Cuddy's quiet tears of relief and joy -- but for him, time seemed to stand still.

Something like a physical shock wave seemed to pass through him, rocking him and tilting his world on its axis as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. He saw Tritter seated a few rows in front of him -- wide-eyed, staring up at the judge in stunned horror – and he realized that the man really hadn't expected to be convicted, despite the overwhelming evidence against him.

Tritter shook his head slowly in disbelief, not quite believing the judge's words. He glanced almost wildly around the courtroom, as if searching for someone who might reveal it all to be some dreadful joke, some dream from which he would awaken to find that his life was all as it had been. By mere happenstance, Tritter's gaze met House's for the briefest of instants; but the convicted detective couldn't even muster a threat through the rising panic that consumed him.

House was startled to find that the compulsion to look away, to avoid Tritter's gaze, had left him; and he found himself strangely fascinated, unable to break eye contact. He studied Tritter's expression, stunned to see in the detective's eyes shades of the same doubt and fear that had plagued his every waking thought since the attack.

Tritter was the first to look away from the brief, silent exchange, as he was led away to the holding cell in chains -- but not before House saw what he needed to see. The shocked, sick look in Tritter's wide, ice blue eyes was intimately familiar to House; he knew what Tritter was thinking. He knew that Tritter was wondering how this could be happening to him, if there was possibly any escape from the situation he had created for himself.

There wasn't.

House found that knowledge infinitely satisfying.

"We will reconvene tomorrow morning at nine for sentencing. Court is adjourned," the judge announced with a final tap of her gavel.

"See?" Wilson exulted, turning to face House and embracing him in a spontaneous hug. "See? It's over. We won! He's going to prison, just like I said!"

House nodded slowly, strangely silent, as his friends celebrated around him, thrilled by the jury's decision. Brooke joined them as they rose from their seats and headed for the exit, talking about a celebratory meal, and discussing where they should go to enjoy it.

House did not participate in the conversation, moving as if in a trance, simply following the others as they made their way toward their vehicles. He knew that he should be thrilled, should be overjoyed with the victory they had just won -- but he couldn't seem to feel anything at all. He was numb, still struggling to process the fact that they had actually won, and it was over.

It didn't _feel_ over.

****************************

"In all of my career in law enforcement, I have never encountered such a disturbing case, nor one with such clear evidence that the crime was motivated by nothing more than sheer cruelty and sadism – and pure evil."

The judge surveyed the courtroom as she spoke, finally allowing her severe gaze to rest on Tritter as she continued coldly.

"Before I impose a maximum sentence on a convicted defendant, I make it my practice to carefully weigh all the factors, to ensure that justice is carried out in the most fair and effective manner possible. Mr. Tritter, I'll confess that it didn't take me very long to decide on your sentence."

House swallowed hard at those words, studying her face, trying to determine whether that meant that Tritter's sentence would be exceptionally hard... or lighter than he had hoped. He drew in a deep, shaky breath as he tried to control his rising fears.

"I am convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that the needs of the victim in this case, and of society at large, are best served by your receiving the maximum possible sentence for your crimes. Therefore, that is what I have decided to impose. For the charge of kidnapping, I sentence you to a prison term of life, without possibility of parole. For the charge of rape, I sentence you to a prison term of life, without possibility of parole. For the charge of conspiracy to commit these acts, I sentence you to a prison term of twenty years, without possibility of parole."

As the sentence was declared, House kept his eyes on Tritter, watching his reaction. The detective actually began to shake visibly as the judge stripped him of his freedom, shaking his head in denial, overwhelmed by the horrific knowledge that the rest of his life had been taken from him.

"Your sentence will begin immediately, Mr. Tritter. You will never again be a free man -- as you do not deserve to be, and the innocent people with whom you might come in contact with do not deserve to be subjected to the evil of which you are capable. Bailiff, take the defendant away. Court is adjourned."

As Tritter was led away, and the spectators began to slowly clear the courtroom, House remained in his seat, staring forward in silent shock at the place where Tritter had sat -- just trying to process the impact of what had just happened.

Now _it's over._

House realized as he sat there, trying to adjust to the reality of safety and security that had just come into existence, that a part of him had never expected Tritter to actually be convicted. Tritter's menacing lies had filled his mind, consuming his thoughts and convincing him that no matter what happened, he would never truly be free of the shadow of Tritter's influence.

_But he's gone... he's really_ gone, _and for good... he can't... can't touch me... can't..._

House was vaguely aware that Brooke was approaching them, a beaming grin on her face as Cuddy leaned forward to shake her hand, returning her triumphant smile.

"We did it!" Brooke declared. "We put that monster away for life!"

She reached for House's hand -- but House didn't respond, just staring forward, eyes wide and stricken, seeing something far beyond where Brooke stood.

"House?" Wilson's voice was hushed, concerned, as he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and tried to pull him around to face him. "Hey... you okay?"

House finally responded to his touch, reluctantly turning to meet Wilson's eyes; but his gaze was distant... lost. Wilson felt a moment's alarm as he recognized the familiar signs of a flashback, and immediately tried to avert it, if it was not already too late to do so.

"Hey... it's okay..." he murmured reassuringly, his hand running slowly up and down House's arm in a soothing motion. "It's okay. It's done, now. He's gone, and you're safe..."

House swallowed hard, staring into Wilson's eyes without seeing him for a long moment -- before recognition began to dawn in his eyes. His lips began to tremble slightly, and Wilson saw the moisture pooling in his eyes, as he echoed Wilson's words in a hoarse, disbelieving whisper.

"S-safe... it's... it's… over... it's _over_..."

Wilson saw the crash coming mere moments before it hit, and gave Cuddy an urgent, meaningful glance and a nod toward the door. She swiftly rose to her feet and gestured for Brooke and Eve to follow her from the room, leaving House and Wilson alone in the now empty courtroom.

Grateful for the privacy, Wilson pulled House closer with a gentle urgency, relieved when House allowed his embrace, unresisting, still staring at him in confusion and disbelief.

"It's over," he whispered again, as if trying to convince himself. "It's over... I'm s-safe..."

"Yes," Wilson confirmed tenderly, blinking back tears as he drew House close to him, running a slow, soothing hand through his hair. "Yes, you're safe now, House. It's over. You're safe."

And finally... _finally_... House began to believe him.

In the quiet stillness of the empty room where his life had just undergone a momentous change, House finally allowed the tumult of his thoughts to flow out with his unbidden tears. The truth began to sink in, as House gradually allowed himself to know that the threat was gone, and he was really safe at last.

Quiet, restrained tears became great, wrenching sobs, as the pressure of the terror of the past few weeks was released with the force of a hurricane -- and Wilson just held him in nearly complete silence, rocking slightly and murmuring the occasional reassuring word, but mostly just allowing him the time he needed to weather the storm, and come to terms with... everything. As much a cause for celebration as it was, it was still a tremendous thing to process.

After unending weeks of torment and fear and uncertainty -- at last, the nightmare was over.


	60. Chapter 60

All he had to do was keep his head down, keep from drawing too much attention to himself – and he would be fine. If he didn't attempt to make any connections with the other prisoners, then he couldn't make any enemies, either. He would stay out of everyone else's way, and hopefully everyone else would ignore him in turn.

That's what Tritter told himself on the way to the prison that would be his place of residence for the rest of his life – if you could call an existence in a maximum security prison "life". Tritter's attorney had quit immediately following the trial, bluntly informing Tritter upon their last meeting that he had virtually no chance of winning any appeals he might seek, and that he had no interest whatsoever in wasting his time on anything of that nature.

Keeping to himself did not prove to be much of a challenge.

Tritter found himself immediately branded an outcast, unwelcome in any of the already established social groups within the prison. His career in law enforcement was the first strike against him, and his conviction for a sexual crime was the second.

The third strike against him, he discovered that first night.

He did not recognize any of the three men who were his cellmates – but one of them recognized him.

He had been sleeping for nearly an hour when he was roughly dragged from his bed and thrown against the wall at the far end of the cell. A hard, calloused hand covered his mouth, smothering his attempted cry for help, while other hands pinned him down, preventing him from struggling.

A vaguely familiar face, grinning, eyes glittering with malice, appeared in front of Tritter's as his eyes began to adjust to the near-darkness of the room.

"Did you think I didn't recognize you?" the man sneered in his face. "Did you think I'd forgotten what you did to me? How you _put_ me here, on false charges of drug possession? I heard about what happened to you – how you got here – and I think it's hilariously ironic that the next guy you tried to do the same thing to, is the one who put _you_ in here."

Overcome by panic when he realized that at least one of his attackers had a legitimate reason to want to harm him, Tritter tried to pull away from the restraining hands that held him, but there were simply too many of them. Instead, he found himself again slammed back against the wall.

"I was an innocent man when you got me thrown in here," the man continued, his voice soft and bitterly triumphant. "But _you're_ not. We all know what you did to that doctor you tried to frame. It was all over the news, and yes, we actually _do_ have televisions here. No, we know – you're far from innocent." He paused, his voice soft and chillingly certain as he continued, "And so am I… _now_."

Tritter tried to fight them off, tried to escape and call for help as the man he had wronged, and the other two, held him down and assaulted him. They kept his face pressed into the thin pillow from his bed to muffle his cries, kept him pinned down against the floor as he was violently brutalized in much the same way as he and his cohorts had violated House; and promised – as he had promised House – that they would return to do it again, any time they chose to do so.

By morning, Tritter's body – as well as his carefully preserved sense of dignity – were bruised and battered, and his illusions as to his chances of survival in prison had been shattered. Only one thought consumed him, as he made his way about his grim daily routine, trying his best to stay out of the way of anyone else who might have reason to attack him.

Only one idea filled his every thought.

_Escape_.

**************************

As the months slowly passed following the conclusion of the trial, House and his friends set about the difficult task of resuming some semblance of normal life.

He moved back into his old apartment and returned to work full time. Wilson moved in with him, at least on a temporary basis, in order to make the adjustment easier and less frightening; but the longer he was there, the more both men began to privately consider the idea of the arrangement becoming permanent.

House was becoming more comfortable, more at ease with himself. He still had moments of inexplicable terror, when an ordinary noise or an innocuous but sudden movement would startle him, and he would find himself fighting off a panic attack – but gradually, those moments became fewer and farther between. Each day that passed without such an incident – each patient successfully cured – brought House one baby step nearer to the confidence and security he had possessed before the assault.

The first time he cast an insulting joke in Chase's direction during a differential, he was irritated to find that his team was pleased, rather than bothered by the return of his trademark sarcasm.

Three months after Tritter's sentencing, Wilson was finishing his work in his office when House stopped by, wearing his coat, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"I'm heading home," he announced quietly. "See you there."

Wilson frowned in surprise and concern as he rose to his feet and came around the desk to stop House before he could disappear down the hallway. "Wait, _wait_! House… are you sure? I'll be done in about thirty minutes, and I can…"

"Wilson." House's voice was flat and unyielding. "Stop mothering me. I'll be fine." He paused, nodding to Wilson in dismissal as he added, "Leaving now."

Wilson watched him go with a feeling of mingled worry and pride – then shook his head, laughing softly at himself as he returned to his desk.

_House is right. Mothering is _exactly_ what I'm doing. _

Wilson's smile faded away as he let out a sigh of resignation and returned to the seat behind his desk, resisting the urge to quickly gather his things and follow House down to the lobby and his car – because House hadn't touched his bike since the attack – just to be sure he made it there safely.

_And he's right about something else, too. Sooner or later, he's got to stand on his own. It's a good thing that he's trying to do that – even if at this point, that scares _me_ almost as much as it scares him._

Wilson forced himself to finish his work, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes as he fought the impulse to leave early. Finally, exactly twenty-eight minutes after House left his office, Wilson closed his briefcase and put on his coat and scarf, hurriedly locking his office door before making his way down the hallway and toward the elevators.

_He's going to be just fine. It's completely safe now._

Wilson tried to reassure himself as he crossed the lobby and headed toward the glass doors of the exit, swallowing back the sick knot of instinctive fear that he couldn't seem to suppress. They had all spent so long under the constant threat of Tritter's intimidation that even for Wilson, it was difficult to accept the fact that that threat was finally gone.

Wilson's footsteps came to an abrupt halt a couple of feet outside the hospital, when he spied a lonely, forlorn figure sitting on a bench near the well-lit doors, narrow shoulders hunched against the cold, his head turned away and eyes downcast.

When House looked up at him – Wilson instantly understood.

House's eyes were filled with disappointment and disgust, and bright with unshed tears of frustration. His hands in his pockets, his discarded backpack at his feet, spoke of despair and defeat. He held Wilson's sympathetic gaze for a long moment before looking down again, swallowing hard as he picked up his backpack and rose to his feet to meet Wilson where he stood.

"Don't talk," he said softly, a quiet plea in the words. "Just walk."

Wilson complied as he walked beside House, leading the way to his own car instead of House's, which had remained in its parking spot for the last three weeks – ever since the last time House had thought he had gathered the courage to make his way alone. Wilson didn't say anything until they were both in the car, and he had started the engine. As he pulled out into the street, he finally ventured a few reassuring words.

"You'll get there, House."

"Apparently not in this lifetime," House sighed, staring grimly out the window. "And didn't I order you very nicely to shut up?"

"Yes, but at the time I hadn't said anything, so it didn't count."

House raised an eyebrow as he turned to cast a dubious look in Wilson's direction. "Who made up _that_ rule?"

"Me, just now." Wilson smiled, not looking at House as he drove. His smile faded, his voice soft but filled with conviction as he repeated, "And you _will_ get there. You just have to give yourself time."

"Yeah," House muttered, looking out the window again. "_Your_ time. I hope you're prepared to spend the rest of your life making sure there are no monsters lurking in any dark parking lot I happen to have to cross."

"I am," Wilson answered simply without hesitation.

House couldn't bring himself to look at him this time, touched by the sincerity and devotion he heard in Wilson's voice, and afraid to allow Wilson to see the emotion in his unguarded eyes. It was as if the assault had torn down all of House's defensive walls, leaving them in rubble around him, and his emotions free to be seen by anyone who might look for them for longer than a moment.

"I'm here for you, House," Wilson continued, still gazing out the windshield, knowing better than to look at House right now, well aware of how vulnerable he was feeling. "And I will be. No matter how long it takes."

************************

"Hey. Nathan Moss."

The guard glanced nervously in the direction of the inmate beckoning to him from a few yards down the row. He frowned, troubled when he saw that it was who he had suspected – the last person in this entire prison with whom he would willingly have spoken.

However, given the circumstances – he wasn't sure he had a choice.

"Yeah, you," Tritter sneered, waving him forward again. "Come here."

Glancing up and down the aisle to see that no one else was around to observe the conversation, Nathan reluctantly made his way toward Tritter.

"What do you want?" he demanded harshly.

Both men knew the tone to be nothing more than a façade.

"We'll get to that," Tritter replied with a smirk. "First, let's cover the obvious details so we don't have to go over it again later." His smile faded as he stated coldly, "You owe me."

"I don't owe you shit," Nathan insisted with false defiance, the tremor in his voice betraying his fear. "You're crazy."

"You're only here because of me, and you know it," Tritter countered, his voice soft, but commanding as ever. "Well," he amended after a moment with a casual half-shrug, "actually, you'd still be here. You'd just be on the other side of the bars."

"Shut up," Nathan hissed, looking around anxiously again. "That was years ago…"

"Yeah, yeah… that was then," Tritter agreed, rolling his eyes impatiently. "And this is now, Nathan. And it's time to pay up."

"You think I want to put this job in jeopardy?" Nathan shot back in anger and restrained outrage. "I'm not the same man I was back then. I have a family now…"

"Yeah. Brilliant, beautiful wife, and two gorgeous little girls. I know." Tritter's smile widened, a cruel gleam in his eyes when he caught the flash of fear on Nathan's face. "How is Susan these days? And the twins – Marcia and Sophia. They're in… what? Second grade?"

Nathan's face paled with fear. "How… how do you…?"

"I know a lot of things." Tritter smirked. "And a lot of _people_. Most of them are outside these walls. You're not the only guy who owes me a favor or two, Nathan."

Nathan swallowed back a sick wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him, looking away before finally muttering in helpless frustration, "What do you want from me? There's only so much I can… can…"

"Shut up," Tritter ordered coldly, pausing and then smiling in gratification when the guard complied, despite the apparent power discrepancy in his favor. "And I'll _tell_ you."


	61. Chapter 61

One week later, House's car still had not been moved from its parking space outside the hospital.

Wilson knew that it bothered House to know that he wasn't yet capable of seeing himself home in the evenings. He felt embarrassed and ashamed of his perceived weakness, and though he rarely voiced it, Wilson knew that he believed himself to be becoming a burden to his friend. Wilson found himself driving House home every evening, walking with him anytime he had to be outdoors after dark, and just generally doing everything in his power to make sure that House felt safe.

House knew that he needed no less than that, but still, he felt that it was too much to ask.

Wilson really didn't mind at all.

They lived in the same apartment, worked the same hours at the same workplace, so it was no inconvenience to him – not to mention the fact that sometimes, he was nearly as nervous as House was about the idea of him being alone after dark.

Truth be told, their shaky routine was as much a comfort to Wilson as it was to House.

It was about four o'clock, and Wilson still had a little over an hour to work, when he remembered a file he had taken home the evening before, then forgotten and left at home that morning. He swore softly under his breath in irritation at the inconvenient oversight. Cuddy had asked him to be sure to bring the file back that day, as she needed it first thing the following morning.

At least he didn't have any pressing work left for the afternoon, and could afford to go home and get the file and come back, sparing himself the need to return to the hospital later in the evening, once his working hours were over.

Wilson sighed wearily as he made his way down to the parking lot, annoyed at having to make the extra trip. He glanced at his watch, wondering briefly if he should have left House a note to let him know where he had gone, but decided that it would be all right. House wouldn't be ready to leave for the day for another hour at least.

_I'll be back in thirty minutes... no reason to go back... If House comes by before I get back, he'll just assume I'm somewhere in the hospital. He won't worry until five, at least..._

Wilson glanced through the glass walls of Cuddy's office as he passed through the clinic, noticing with absent, distracted curiosity that she appeared to have already left for the day -- which was somewhat strange. Cuddy was usually the last to leave.

_Oh, well. Everyone needs a break now and then – even if hers happens to consist of nothing more than the occasional hour at the end of a day now and then._

Wilson was distracted as he crossed the parking lot to his car, but not concerned. He had parked in the lot as opposed to the garage, as usual. Ever since the attack, neither he nor House ever even considered parking in the garage. At any rate, . iIt was still bright outside, the sun low but still visible in the western sky, and so the fears House had passed onto him that which usually accompanied such a trip after dark were blessedly absent at the moment.

Wilson unlocked his car door and slid into the driver's seat, placing his key in the ignition. A moment later, his grim expression of irritation faded into a smile of pleased surprise when he noticed the file in question lying on the dashboard.

_Didn't leave it at home, after all. Well, that's convenient._

Wilson turned the key back and removed it from the ignition, opening the door again to get out. Before he could, however, a shadow fell across the open door, and he looked up in curiosity -- that swiftly shifted to stunned disbelief and alarm when he saw whose shadow it was looming over him. He tried to stand quickly, to remove the disadvantage of his seated position, his lips parted to cry out for help.

Before he could make a move or sound in his defense, however, the man shot out a hand toward him. Wilson recognized the object in his hand with alarm, but had no time to avoid the point of the hypodermic needle Tritter held before the larger man could use it. He felt the sharp jab of the needle in the side of his neck, opened his mouth to cry out... just before everything around him faded away into darkness.

*****************************

A few minutes before five o'clock, House made his way down the hall to Wilson's office, weary and exhausted and ready to go home for the evening. He reflected with a sense of relief and satisfaction that today had been a good day, untouched by the sort of panic attacks and moments of irrational terror that so often plagued his waking hours.

He walked into Wilson's office without knocking, as usual -- then stopped short just past the doorway, frowning in surprise. He had expected that Wilson would have been in his office around this time, gathering his belongings and getting ready to leave -- but the office was empty.

The lights were still on, and Wilson's briefcase was open on the desk, papers still scattered across the blotter, as if Wilson he had left them there with every the intention of returning within a very short time. Surprised, but not too concerned, House decided to wait for him. He sat down in the chair across from Wilson's desk, leaning back and letting his head fall backward, eyes closed, as he tried to relax and let go of some of the tension of a long and stressful day.

When Wilson did not return within the next fifteen minutes, however, House began to worry that something might actually be wrong. It was well past time to leave for the day, and Wilson had let him know that he wanted to leave on time this evening, if at all possible.

House took out his cell phone and dialed Wilson's number, frowning thoughtfully as he waited for his friend to pick up. Mild concern turned to outright worry, when he heard Wilson's familiar ring tone begin to echo in the stillness of the room, and saw the rhythmic blinking light of its screen, glowing from beneath a stack of rustling papers in Wilson's open briefcase.

House rose from the chair, his thoughts racing with the beginnings of a panic that he was sure – mostly – was quite premature.

_There's no reason to worry. He's probably just down in the clinic, checking in with Cuddy about something -- or checking on a patient one last time before he leaves for the day. It's nothing… nothing to worry about. Everything is fine._

Somehow, this time, House couldn't quite convince himself that his reassuring thoughts were true.

He hesitated a moment, unsure of what course of action to take, before turning decisively and making his way toward the elevators. His first course of action, he supposed, should be to check the parking lot and make sure that Wilson's car was still there. It _should_ be, as all of Wilson's belongings were still in his office -- but seeing Wilson's car for himself would allow House the peace of mind of knowing that he was still somewhere in the hospital.

On the stone tile outside the clinic entrance, however -- House found himself once more face to face with his worst fears.

He swallowed hard, his mouth dry, his heart pounding in his chest as he looked out over the parking lot, glancing anxiously up at the last of the fading light in the twilight sky. His trembling hands balled into fists at his sides, clenching and unclenching, as he waged a silent war with his own apprehensions, struggling to find the strength to step out onto the surface of his fears.

_I can't... can't do it. I should just go back to his office and wait for him... He has to come back at some point. He wouldn't have just left me… but... but what if something _has _happened? What if he's not okay, and I... I just walk away, and... no... no, I have to make sure he's all right..._

House steeled himself and took a shaky but determined step off the stone tile and onto the concrete… and his stomach lurched with that single step. He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing again, his throat constricted in terror.

_It's perfectly safe... Tritter's in prison, and it's perfectly safe... Don't think about it... Just head for Wilson's car, and don't think about it..._

One halting step after another, his trembling hand taut, white-knuckled on the grip of his cane, House made his way across the dimly lit parking lot toward the place where Wilson had parked his car -- for House's benefit, as close to the entrance as he could get it without having a handicapped spot.

House's stomach dropped as he rounded the corner and sawtoward the place where Wilson's car had been parked -- and saw that it was empty.

_But... that can't be right. He wouldn't have left for the day -- not without making sure I was all right. That's completely not like him. Something must have happened. Something's wrong... maybe he got a call about a family emergency, and had to leave suddenly, and it's bad enough that he just didn't remember… or… or... something..._

His brow creased with worry, House turned and headed toward his own car, parked a bit closer to the hospital entrance than Wilson's had been. He was unsettlingly aware that the last of the evening light had faded, as he opened the door with a trembling hand and climbed hurriedly into the driver's seat, eager to reach the safety it promised, though his thoughts were focused almost completely on Wilson.

_Gotta get home... gotta find out what happened, why he rushed off... make sure he's okay..._

He quickly started the engine, his hand moving to the gear shift to put it into drive – but before he could, a vice-like hand closed around his arm, yanking it back behind him and preventing the motion, as a second hand pressed over his mouth, holding his head back against the head rest behind him and muffling the instinctive cry of desperate fear that left his lips.

"Shhh," a sickeningly familiar voice whispered in his ear, rancid breath that smelled of nicotine and decay hot and damp against his neck. "Keep your mouth shut, House. Don't make a sound, and don't move."

_No, no, this _can't _be happening… He's in prison, he _can't_ be here, he's locked up for life… but… but it's _real_… and he's _here_… and… God… I'm going to die…_

Despite that disconcerting knowledge, Tritter's deeply ingrained threats and intimidations from the past were enough to keep House's hand obediently still as Tritter released his arm and raised his hand to press something cold and hard and circular against his temple. House's mouth went dry, and he closed his eyes, suddenly more certain than ever that Tritter had no intention of leaving him alive – not this time.

"You're not going to give me a hard time, are you, House?" Tritter murmured into his ear, pressing harder with the gun against his head. "You're not going to resist me, and you're not going to make a sound unless I tell you to – are you?"

When Tritter slowly, cautiously removed his hand from House's mouth, House shook his head without opening his eyes, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat. "N-no," he whispered, his tone filled with the defeat of knowing that, despite their every effort, despite every recourse the law allowed – Tritter was _still_ able to get to him, still able to do whatever he wanted to do to him. "No."

_What's the use? He always wins, anyway…_

"Good," Tritter murmured, his tone almost soothing as he trailed the gun down from House's temple to his neck, his free hand running slowly up and down House's arm in a sickening parody of gentleness that left House fighting back a surge of bile that rose in his throat. "That's a good boy. We need to have a little talk, House – and we're going to go somewhere a little more – private – to do it."

Can you just kill Tritter this time??? Very quickly please.

From the sentence earlier I'm assuming that not only does Tritter have House & Wilson, he also has Cuddy. House's immediate reaction to Tritter seems very accurate since he still hasn't escaped his initial fears after the attack. Yes they are less than they were but not completely gone so his thoughts seem very much what I would expect in this situation.

I do think that if Tritter has all three of them it is going to make a huge difference for House here since that is also one of the main things he was afraid of earlier. Tritter's desire for vengeance is probably going to encompass all of the people he blames for going to the authorities and that also includes Jenna and her brother. House, Wilson & Cuddy are the main focus for him but if he manages to succeed here the secondary targets will also be in danger.

Since House has been able to recover at least somewhat after the trial I do think that after the initial shock wears off he is going to start thinking. House's ability to come up with a solution that "saves the patient" will probably come since for him Cuddy & Wilson are the closest thing he has to a family. His concern for them, although normally played out in sarcasm and snark, is still very real. So if he does come to understand that their wellbeing depends on him stopping Tritter then he is going to become extremely focused on that. It should very strongly over-ride whatever fears he has for himself and give him the will to resist whatever Tritter has in mind. Even if that is a threat to their wellbeing. House is smart enough to understand that Tritter can't leave any of them alive.


	62. Chapter 62

"Okay. First things first. You wouldn't happen to be carrying that gun of Wilson's, would you? It's illegal in the state of New Jersey to carry a concealed weapon – but that doesn't mean much to _you_, does it?"

Tritter sneered in House's ear, pressing his own weapon harder against House's temple. House shook his head with a convulsive swallow, his eyes closed against the horrifying reality of the situation in which he had so suddenly found himself.

"No," he whispered. "No, I… I don't have the gun… please…"

"If you lie to me…" Tritter's voice was soft, almost gentle, but as he spoke, he moved the gun in his hand, pressing it past House's parted lips and into his mouth, causing him to draw in a sharp gasp of alarm at the sheer brutal menace of the gesture alone. "… I will make you _beg_ to die… _hours_ before I actually kill you. Do you understand?"

House nodded hurriedly, a strangled whimper torn from his throat as Tritter jerked his head back warningly with the gun in his mouth, his free hand playing idly through House's hair in a mockery of tenderness that left a filthy, sick feeling in the pit of House's stomach.

"Good," Tritter murmured soothingly, his voice low and patronizingly gentle. "That's real good, House. You just keep being so nice and cooperative, and this will go a lot easier for you. Now – I want you to reach into your pocket, _very slowly_, and hand me your cell phone."

His hand trembling, House obeyed, taking out his phone and handing it over his shoulder to Tritter.

"And your keys."

House fumbled for the keys in the ignition, somehow managing to get them out without being able to see them, and placing them in Tritter's hand as well. Tritter applied greater pressure with the gun, a cold warning in his voice as he gave a final soft, menacing instruction.

"And finally… your cane, House. Very, _very_ slowly. Do _not_ be an idiot. All right?"

House nodded, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat as he reached with a trembling, halting hand to pick up his cane from the seat beside him and pass it over the seat to Tritter. The idea of striking out against Tritter with the cane momentarily entered his mind, but was instantly dismissed. All of House's carefully rebuilt confidence dissipated instantly under the force of Tritter's intimidation. The idea that any attempt at resistance might actually be successful never entered House's mind.

"Very good."

Tritter smirked as he slowly withdrew the gun from House's mouth, pressing it to his temple again as House gasped for breath, his shoulders shaking with the irrational relief of its removal. As he spoke in a soft, menacing tone, Tritter's hand trailed down from House's hair to lock around his throat.

"If you try to move – or escape – or something as stupid as say, laying on the horn to try to get someone's attention – I'll spend an extra hour or so playing with you before I kill you, House. Oh, and so you know – the same goes for Wilson and Cuddy, too. Whatever I do to you, I'll do to them, too. They're waiting for us, you know."

House drew in a sharp breath of alarm at those words, simultaneously sick with fear for his friends, and ashamed that from the moment he had realized that Tritter was in the car with him, he hadn't given another thought to Wilson and his strange disappearance.

_And it was so_ obvious! Of course, _Tritter took him… but all I could think about was what he's going to do to _me…

"I-I won't," House whispered, shaking his head as much as possible within Tritter's restraining grasp. His voice was hoarse, broken, as he quietly begged for the lives of his friends. "Please… I won't… won't fight you. Just… just please… don't hurt them…"

"You already know, House," Tritter reminded him gently, clearly pleased with the success of his cruel tactics. "What happens to _them_ depends on _you_. You just keep still and quiet and don't try anything, while I come around the car and get in the front – and _maybe_ I'll decide to let them live. Is that clear?"

House nodded hurriedly, and Tritter removed the gun from his head and got out of the car. House felt his chest constrict with a sensation of helpless, useless panic as he watched Tritter circle the car. He wanted to _do_ something, _anything_, to stop this man from getting back into the car and hurting him and his friends – but there was nothing he _could_ do.

_Can't drive off – or run him down and end all of this when he gets in front of the car – he's got my keys. Can't call for help – can't even try to defend myself because he took my freaking_ cane! _And if I _could _get away and get to help before he got back into the car – he'd kill them. He'd take my car and go immediately to wherever he has them, and kill them, and it'd be _my fault. _But there has to be a way – has to be_ something…

His mind raced in search of an answer that he had only moments to find – and then, time was up, and Tritter was sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

"Good boy," Tritter murmured his approval as he pressed the gun against the side of House's neck, a cold smile on his lips, holding out House's car keys to him. "Now drive."

House did not try to fight him, only obediently took the keys and placed them in the ignition. His voice was low and submissive, trembling slightly as he softly asked, "W-where?"

Tritter's smile became a smirk of twisted amusement as he answered, as if the answer should have been obvious.

"Home, of course. Wouldn't want you to miss my going away party, now would you?"

*****************************

During the short drive to House's apartment, he tried to think of something he could do to wrest control of the situation from Tritter's grasp.

_But that would mean getting the _gun_ from his grasp – and if I try that, and fail…_

"Stay put," Tritter ordered softly, holding out an expectant hand for the keys once House had parked the car in his usual parking spot outside his apartment. Tritter momentarily pressed the gun harder against House's throat in warning, before removing it completely and opening the passenger side door. "I'll tell you when I want you to get out."

As Tritter got out of House's car and walked around it, House cast a wild, desperate glance at the surrounding area, searching for any sign of someone who might be able to help him. Down the street, almost out of sight, he saw a young couple walking up the sidewalk to their apartment – but they were not close enough to notice his dilemma.

_But… if I could draw a little attention to myself… if I could get them to notice…_

Tritter opened the driver's side door, and before House could move, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and jerked him to his feet, pressing him against the side of the car, one hard hand gripping his throat so tightly that House couldn't draw breath to cry out, the other hand pressing the gun painfully into his side. Tritter leaned in close to his ear, a cruel smile on his lips as he spoke in a hushed, controlled voice.

"You think I don't already know what you're thinking, House? You're more obvious than you think. But here's what _you_ need to know: If you make a single sound… try anything on the way inside… your friends are dead. I'll kill you in that very second – and them about ten seconds later. I'll be gone before that nice looking young couple down the street even realizes that they _might_ ought to call the cops or something. So you're going to behave yourself, and be a good little _bitch_… aren't you, House?"

His eyes closed, gasping for breath that wouldn't come, House nodded with an effort against Tritter's painful grip on his throat, holding his hands up in front of his stomach in a very small, cautious gesture of submission.

"Good. Now let's go."

Tritter slowly eased his grip until he removed his hand entirely, keeping the gun pressed into House's side as he grabbed his arm and turned him toward his apartment. House kept silent, barely daring to breathe, as Tritter dragged him, half-stumbling without his cane, toward the entrance. Tritter unlocked the door and shoved House ahead of him inside, so hard that he nearly fell, staggering until he hit the side of the sofa and clutched onto it for balance.

When the room stopped spinning around him and his eyes regained their focus, House stared in horrified surprise at the sight of Wilson and Cuddy, both handcuffed to chairs from House's kitchen that had been carried into the living room. They were both gagged with duct tape – the roll of which was still sitting on the coffee table – and Wilson appeared to be unconscious.

Cuddy, however, was awake, her eyes wide with fear as they darted between House and Tritter, her bound wrists straining against the unyielding metal that held them to the wooden slats of the chair behind her.

House met her eyes for a moment, wishing that he could offer her more reassurance, if only with a look; but it was impossible to give her what he lacked himself, and at the moment, House doubted that any of them were going to survive the night.

He returned his concerned gaze to Wilson, wondering why he was unconscious. There was no obvious head wound, no blood to indicate any kind of injury. He was slumped in the chair, held up only by the cuffs at his wrists, his head tilted at an awkward angle guaranteed to leave him with a painful crick in his neck when he awakened.

And that awkward angle revealed to House the source of the problem – a tiny red pinprick on the side of his neck, surrounded by a small, purplish bruise.

"You drugged him. What did you give him?" he demanded before he could think about it, unable to disguise the anger in his voice. "What have you done to him?"

"The same thing I'm going to do to you, House…"

Tritter replied in a low murmur, grabbing House's throat from behind and yanking him back against him, then abruptly turning to shove him painfully into the wall beside them, knocking his head against it in a dizzying blow. Tritter released his throat, only to bring his pistol down hard across House's face, drawing his knee up into House's stomach as he collapsed to the floor against the wall. Tritter seized his hair and jerked his head back, striking him in the face again before leaning in close to snarl in his face.

"_Whatever the hell I want_!"

Shaken by the flurry of blows, fighting against a wave of pain-induced nausea, House raised a shaking hand in front of his face in a gesture that was half-defensive, half-pleading.

"Okay," he whispered breathlessly, his face slightly turned away from Tritter's unbridled rage. "Okay… please…"

"_Shut up_!" Tritter demanded, slapping House's hands away from his face in irritation before bringing the gun down a third time. "I told you to keep your mouth _shut_. Didn't I? _Didn't I_?"

House nodded hurriedly, biting his lip in an effort to suppress the urge he felt to apologize again in an attempt to appease Tritter, which would no doubt only serve to further enrage him. He lowered his head in order to evade the next blow, unsure when exactly it would come – only sure that it _would_ come. Tritter meant to punish him, to make him suffer for sending him to prison… and House knew that nothing he could do or say would dissuade him.

"You know what, House?" Tritter hissed, crouching in front of him and gripping his hair, yanking his head forward, not allowing him to hide his face. "I _really_ didn't care for your tone just then. Looks like I'm gonna have to remind the little slut who his master is, aren't I?"

House shook his head pleadingly, not daring to speak, just desperate to avert Tritter's anger before it went any further. Tritter just painfully shook him by the hair, pressing the gun under his chin until he choked, coughing and gasping for breath. Tritter's lips twisted into a cruel smile as he edged closer to House, trailing the gun slowly downward from his throat, letting it slip suggestively under the collar of House's rumpled dress shirt.

"Really, it's no trouble," Tritter sneered. "It'll be my _pleasure_ to remind you."


	63. Chapter 63

The first thing Wilson became aware of as he drifted back toward consciousness was the irritating and uncomfortable twinge of pain in his neck. He let out a low groan as he turned his head to relieve the pain, then struggled to open his eyes, which seemed strangely heavy and uncooperative with his attempts.

He could hear, though, and the sounds he heard filled him with a sick sense of fearful urgency, reminding him of what had happened, how he had gotten into this position – whatever position he would momentarily find himself in – as well as what had likely happened after he had been taken.

_Tritter._

Tritter's loud and furious voice was unmistakable, filled with menace and rage, his words punctuated by ominous sounds of violence, and the occasional suppressed sound of pain and pleading from another, far more intimately familiar voice. The barely controlled panic in that low, trembling voice tore at Wilson's heart, as he realized that their worst fears had come to pass.

"Please… I'm sorry, _please_…"

_House. He's got House…_

_Oh, God, _no_..._

Wilson struggled against the painfully bright light, then finally managed to open his eyes a bit, blinking rapidly as he struggled to adjust, to bring the source of the sounds across the room into focus. He had to assess the situation, had to find out where they were and how bad things were, to figure out if there was anything he could do to help House, to help get them out of this alive.

As his vision came into focus, Wilson realized with surprise that Tritter had brought them to House's apartment. On a chair a few feet away from the one to which he was bound, Cuddy sat, furiously straining against the cuffs that held her fast, tears streaking her face as she stared in helpless dismay at the scene taking place across the room from where she sat.

Wilson followed her gaze with a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, Tritter's prior threats echoing through his mind. The sick sensation intensified, and suddenly, he was terrified, utterly certain that he did _not _want to see what Tritter was doing to his friend.

A sense of relief filled Wilson when he finally forced himself to look across the room, and saw that House was still fully dressed – at least for the moment – and thus far, Tritter seemed to be content with taking out his frustrations by way of simple violence. House was slumped, half-kneeling, with his back to the wall, holding up a trembling hand in a passive attempt to protect his face from Tritter's brutal blows – of which he had clearly already taken a few, judging from the bloodied, bruised appearance of his face.

"Please… please, don't… I'm sorry…"

"I said _shut up_!"

Tritter's mouth twisted in a grimace of vindictive determination, as he drew back his foot and kicked House viciously in his right thigh, left vulnerable by House's attempt to protect his face. A breathless, silent cry of agony caught in House's throat, his eyes rolling back as his head fell against the wall behind him and he struggled against the dark wave of searing pain that threatened to steal his awareness.

Tritter grabbed him by the collar and jerked him forward, refusing to allow him to escape into the peace of unconsciousness.

"You think you can stop me from hurting you, House?" he sneered into his face. "You think you can keep me from doing whatever I want to do to you?"

House shook his head desperately, eyes closed as he whispered, "No… no…"

Tritter released him with a shove that knocked his head into the wall behind him, taking a step backward, then extending his arm and pressing his pistol against House's forehead with an almost dramatic flair. House flinched slightly, gasping for breath, clearly terrified that Tritter was going to simply kill him right then and there, if for no other reason than to prove the point that he _could_.

"Up on your knees."

House did his best to comply with the soft order, pulling himself up to a kneeling position, despite the screaming agony in his abused leg. Tritter kept the gun to his head as he moved, then crouched down in front of him with a cold, satisfied smile.

"You're going to stay just like this… don't move, don't try anything… until I come back. Do you understand?"

House nodded quickly, eyes closed, hands clenched into tight, helpless fists on the floor at his sides, struggling uselessly to ease some of the weight on his throbbing leg while still maintaining the position Tritter required. House's shaking visibly increased with his momentary relief as Tritter finally moved the gun and walked away into the kitchen, and it became apparent that Tritter wasn't going to shoot him – at least, not yet.

From his seat in the middle of House's living room, Wilson could see that Tritter was checking the tiny window in House's kitchen, making sure that it was closed and locked. After a moment, Tritter turned and made his way down the hall toward the bedroom, apparently unwilling to make the same mistake a second time, of neglecting to check the entire apartment before continuing with his plan.

Recognizing that it would likely be his only chance to communicate with his friend, Wilson let out a low, muffled sound of urgency, struggling against his bonds as he tried to get House's attention. House looked up at him, eyes frighteningly blank and hazy with confusion and fear. Wilson nodded toward House, then nodded toward the small table beside him, with the narrow drawer in it – the drawer where Wilson had taken to keeping their gun. House glanced uncertainly in the direction of the drawer, eyes widening with understanding.

Understanding quickly shifted to fear, and House met Wilson's eyes, shaking his head rapidly, clearly on the verge of panic.

"No." He barely mouthed the word, his trembling intensifying at the thought of such resistance – and the certain consequences it would bring. "No."

Frustrated, Wilson struggled against the gag that kept him silent, trying to make House understand that the gun was likely their only chance – but House refused to even look at him again, shaking his head slightly, his eyes turned away. As Tritter came back down the hall behind him, House flinched at the man's nearness – even as Tritter passed him, headed directly, purposefully toward Wilson.

With one quick, painful motion, Tritter ripped the tape from Wilson's mouth, pressing the gun firmly against his temple, hard enough to shove his head to the side. Wilson's heart lurched at the feeling of the cold steel against his skin, as well as at Tritter's disarmingly soft, almost gentle tone.

"You've got something to say?"

Wilson's breath quickened with fear, but he forced himself to face Tritter, glaring up at him with defiance as he ground out a shaky but furious response. "Yeah. You're going to rot in prison for what you've already done, and what you're doing right now. If you think you're going to get away with this, you're wrong…"

Tritter's face twisted into a mask of fury as he brought the pistol down across Wilson's face, hard.

"Who's going to stop me?" he demanded in cruel triumph, striking out again with the gun in a dizzying blow to Wilson's jaw that left him seeing stars and struggling not to black out. Through the loud ringing in his ears, he heard House's voice cry out in protest.

"Don't! He's not the one you want to hurt! Leave him alone!"

Wilson's heart sank with dread for House, even as he felt a swelling sensation of pride and affection for his friend, who was clearly more willing to accept Tritter's rage upon himself than to see Wilson get hurt.

But unfortunately, Tritter seemed aware of that fact.

Wilson swallowed reflexively as he felt the gun pressed to his head again, harder than before, and heard the ominous echoing click of the hammer being drawn back. Tritter's cruel smile was focused on House as he spoke in a tone of soft challenge.

"You want me to stop, House? You want me to leave him alone?" Tritter's voice lowered, taking on a note of dark, suggestive intent as he added, "What's he worth to you, House? What would you do to save his life?"

House's face paled with sick terror at the implications of Tritter's words, but he quickly swallowed it back, biting his lip for a moment in horrified hesitation, before finally shaking his head and whispering a single, momentous word.

"_Anything_."

"Anything, huh?" Tritter echoed thoughtfully, amusement in his voice. "Let's see how well you can beg for it."

House hesitated a moment, though Wilson was fairly certain it was out of an awkward uncertainty as to what he was supposed to do, rather than due to any unwillingness to lower himself that much. The desperation in House's eyes made it clear that he meant his words, and would do whatever was within his power to spare his friends the fate Tritter had promised them.

Finally, House lowered his face to the floor, his hands outstretched in front of him in a subservient, broken gesture that brought tears to Wilson's eyes to see it. "Please," he whispered. "Please, don't hurt him. Anything you want… I'll do anything… just… just _please_ don't hurt him anymore…"

Tritter finally removed the gun from Wilson's head, placing it securely into the waistband of his pants as he crossed the room to crouch in front of House. A strong hand on House's arm pulled him up to his knees again, and Tritter's free hand trailed slowly up under House's untucked shirt, creating a shiver of sick apprehension as House fought to swallow back the surge of bile that rose in his throat.

"Yes, House," Tritter stated softly, false gentleness in his voice. "You _will_ do anything I want. Before this night is over, you'll do things – and have things done _to_ you – that you've never considered in your worst nightmares."

A soft thumping sound abruptly drew Tritter's attention, and he looked up suspiciously toward the back bedroom. House recognized the sound at once as nothing more than an ordinary noise from the next door apartment, but Tritter glared at him in angry question, shaking him slightly.

"What was that?"

"N-nothing," House insisted. "Just the people next door."

"_Don't. Move_."

Tritter rose to his feet and made his way into the back of the apartment again, aiming his gun in front of him as if he expected someone to jump out at him at any moment. House supposed that their success at hiding Wilson and Jenna in the apartment during their last encounter had served to increase Tritter's paranoia this time around, although there was no reason whatsoever for him to suspect that they might have someone hiding there now.

It wasn't as if they'd been expecting him.

"House," Wilson hissed once Tritter had disappeared into his bedroom. "House, you have to get the gun!"

House glanced once more toward the table just a couple of feet away from him, biting his lip uncertainly. It was incredibly tempting, just to reach out and grab the loaded weapon, to catch Tritter by surprise as he was returning down the hallway, to shoot him and end the whole ordeal in an instant.

But… what if he _didn't_ catch Tritter by surprise?

What if Tritter came back before he could get to the gun, and found it himself instead, and knew what House had been trying to do? What if the attempt only succeeded in making things worse for all of them?

"House!" Wilson persisted in an urgent whisper. "House, listen to me. You can _do_ this!"

House shook his head slowly, despairingly, his eyes lowered in defeat. He couldn't quite bring himself to believe Wilson's encouraging words.

"No, _listen_!" Wilson insisted. "House – why do you think he's got me and Cuddy tied up, but not you? Think about it. Why do you think that is?"

House's brow creased in a puzzled, thoughtful frown, as he momentarily focused more on the question than on their dilemma, but couldn't figure out what Wilson was getting at.

"Because he's sure you won't try anything." Wilson answered his own question. "He's sure he's got you so much under his control that he doesn't _have_ to tie you up. He's _absolutely convinced_ that you won't put up a fight – won't try anything to stop him." Wilson leaned forward in the chair, dark eyes intently locked onto House's face, as understanding gradually dawned there. "And that is why you are the _only_ one who can! That's your secret weapon, House – the fact that he _thinks_ you're helpless. That's what makes you _not_ helpless." In the moment's stillness that followed Wilson's intriguing words, the barest ghost of a smile crossed Wilson's lips, as he spoke again in a soft, affectionate voice.

"Now, don't tell me _you_ can't appreciate the exquisite irony of _that_."

Tritter came storming back into the room at that moment. Irritated at his own paranoia that had led him on a search for nothing, he stalked directly up to Wilson and slapped him, hard, across the face, before grabbing a handful of his hair and jerking his head back, leaning in to snarl in his face.

"I thought I told you to _shut up_."


	64. Chapter 64

"I thought I told you to _shut up_!"

Wilson flexed his jaw slowly with a grimace of pain at the brutal blow Tritter had just dealt him – but the grimace slowly shifted to a bitter, sarcastic smile. He resisted the urge to look past Tritter to House, not wanting to do anything to direct Tritter's attention toward his friend. He had no idea whether or not he had really gotten through to House and convinced him to go for the gun; but he _did_ know that if House was going to have the opportunity to get the weapon into his hands at all, it would have to be while Tritter's back was turned.

"Yeah, well," Wilson remarked with a casually defiant shrug. "I don't listen all that well. Must be the company I keep."

Tritter's response to Wilson's uncharacteristically smart remark was another fist across his face, before leaning in, his huge, meaty hands resting on the armrests of Wilson's chair as he leaned in intimidatingly close with a cold sneer of satisfaction.

_Well, at least I've got his attention…_

But with Tritter's hot, rancid breath on his skin, the cruel menace in his eyes, Wilson had to wonder whether or not that was actually a good thing.

"Enjoy your little jokes while you can, smart ass," Triter sneered. "In a few minutes, you won't be able to _think_ of laughing anymore. I already told House what I'd do if he opened his mouth to anyone – and that's exactly what's gonna happen now. I'm gonna have my fun with the three of you for the next few hours – make you pay for the last few months I've spent in prison – and then… I'm off to Mexico. They don't extradite for _anything_. So go ahead and laugh all you like now. I'll be the one who's laughing last, before they ever even find your bodies."

"No!" House objected, and Wilson cringed inwardly as Tritter turned his attention toward House. "No – you don't have to hurt them. This has nothing to _do_ with them!"

"I don't _have_ to hurt _you_, either, House," Tritter pointed out in a dangerously soft, patient voice as he slowly paced toward the spot where House knelt on the floor.

Tritter crouched down in front of him, and House flinched but did not pull away as Tritter seized his hair and jerked his head back in a gesture intended solely to expose his throat and make him feel vulnerable. House swallowed hard as Tritter trailed his gun slowly down the column of his throat, deliberately intensifying his terror, and savoring every moment of it. Tritter's low, deceptively gentle voice sent a sick shudder through House's body when he finally spoke again.

"It's just that it's so much _fun_."

House opened his mouth to speak, his breath rapid and shallow and shaking as he struggled to maintain his composure. He closed his eyes for a long moment, drawing in a deep breath and replying at last in a soft, timid voice.

"If… if it's so much fun, then… then why don't you just… do what you want to _me_… and let them go?" House paused a moment, his voice growing stronger as he continued. "It doesn't make any difference as to your… your future, either way. Whatever you do or don't do, you can still get away and… and start over in Mexico. You don't _have _to hurt them. I'll do… anything you want. I swear it. Just… just let them go."

Tritter was quiet, an exaggeratedly serious, attentive expression on his face, nodding with false encouragement as House spoke. When House was finished, Tritter's face slowly broke into a smile of cold, triumphant amusement, and he let out a soft, derisive laugh. House winced as Tritter jerked him closer, his voice low and frighteningly intimate as he spoke slowly and deliberately into his ear.

"See, that's what you don't understand, House. You're right – hurting you is my main objective here. But then, obviously – hurting _them_ is just another way of hurting _you_. Possibly the _best_ way, judging by how hard you're trying to make sure that I _don't_ hurt them."

House swallowed slowly, his eyes closed, his shoulders falling with defeat at Tritter's words. He tensed as Tritter slid the muzzle of the gun up under the hem of his shirt, his hand at the back of House's head gentling to run through his hair in a parody of a caress, as he continued his hushed words of horrific intent.

"You know what I'm going to do, House?" he murmured, too low for anyone but House to hear. "I'm going to untie them from those chairs – one at a time – and handcuff their wrists behind their backs. Then, I'm going to throw them down on this floor and take them in every possible way you can think of – every way I took _you_. _Every_… way, House. And a few ways I _couldn't_ take you, when it comes to Cuddy. By the time I'm finished tearing them up inside, they're going to be crying, screaming, _begging_ me just to kill them. But I won't listen, House. No – I'll wait until _you_ can't take any more – until _you_ beg me – in _front _of them – to kill them. The last thing they'll hear is you… ordering their deaths. And you'll watch them die, suffering and tortured and in agony with their last breaths."

Tritter released House abruptly, rising to his feet, leaving House in a trembling, sick, wretched heap on the floor at his feet. Tritter's smile was savagely bright as he stared down at House, waiting until he tentatively raised his gaze to meet Tritter's before speaking again.

"Doesn't that sound like _fun_?"

House shook his head slowly, his eyes downcast as he whispered, "No… no, _don't_…"

Tritter gleefully ignored his plea, turning toward Wilson again, this time apparently with no intention of stopping short of the heinous promise he had just given House. He pressed his gun to Wilson's head as he sneered a cold, calm threat.

"Now, you're gonna cooperate – gonna be nice and quiet and well-behaved – and things might go a little quicker for you."

He reached for the handcuffs that held Wilson to the chair, the gun still tightly held in his right hand. Wilson's heart was pounding with the horrifying knowledge of what Tritter intended to do to him. He stole a brief glance toward House, wondering how his friend was reacting to what was happening, hoping that House would not respond with recklessly noble intentions and end up making things worse for himself.

Naturally… that seemed to be precisely what House had decided to do.

"I'll go with you to Mexico."

Tritter was stunned enough by the strange offer that he stopped what he was doing, turning slowly to face House with a confused frown. Wilson stared at House in horror, shaking his head slowly, trying to comprehend what House was talking about – what it was he thought he was trying to do.

"Excuse me?" Tritter's voice was dubious, disbelieving, but there was a hint of a marveling smile on his lips, a delighted gleam in his eyes.

"You enjoy hurting me so much?" House continued, his voice trembling but strong as he bravely held Tritter's piercing gaze, even from his kneeling position on the floor. "You think it's so much fun having me at your mercy, under your total control? How'd you like that set-up to be permanent?"

Tritter's smile faded slightly into pensive thought, as he turned slowly to fully face House, the gun lowering slowly to his side. His voice was guarded but interested as he replied.

"I'm listening."

"I won't struggle – won't fight. I'll go with you across the border – do whatever you want me to do, obey your every command. I'll be your own personal… toy, to do with whatever you want," House explained, his eyes glittering with desperate, unshed tears, but his gaze intense and unwavering. "Absolute power, Tritter. That's what you get off on, right?" He paused, holding the other man's gaze. "That's what I'm offering you – if you'll leave them alone. Leave them _alive_, and… and untouched."

Tritter's lips twisted slowly into a derisive sneer as he moved at an even, measured pace toward House, a knowing, skeptical note in his voice.

"Right. And the moment we leave the apartment, they manage to work their way free and call the authorities – who promptly pick me up a few miles from the border – leaving you conveniently free of holding up your end of this little deal you're proposing."

"I have plenty of morphine, here in the apartment."

Tritter blinked in surprise at that – as did Wilson – waiting for House to continue.

"I know how much to give them to keep them knocked out for long enough for us to get to the border, without doing them any permanent harm. You can leave them tied and gagged and drugged, and they won't be able to alert _anyone_ until it's too late."

Tritter's eyes narrowed in menace, as he took a slow step closer to House, towering over him as he asked a soft, threatening question.

"And what's to stop me from simply doing what I want to your friends, then going ahead and taking you up on your sweet little offer, anyway?"

House boldly held his gaze, as he answered in a voice that was taut with apprehension, yet certain and firm.

"The fact that once they're dead, I no longer have any reason to want to go along with you. If you kill them, I'll kick and scream and fight until I'm dead, too." House was quiet, unflinching, even as Tritter's eyes widened in obvious outrage. House's next words, accompanied by a ridiculously casual shrug, halted Tritter's anger, however, replacing it with amazement.

"Seems like that'd cut your fun a bit short, wouldn't it?"

Tritter nodded slowly, non-committal. "And what's to stop you from lying to me about the morphine? Or under-dosing them? Not to mention just resisting the second we're in public? Making as much noise and drawing as much attention as you can, to try to save yourself?"

Any trace of bravado or humor left House's eyes, which immediately became solemn and heavy, to match the soft tone of dread in his voice as he answered without hesitation.

"The knowledge that even if I escaped you for the moment, eventually you'd come back – and that time, there's no way you'd leave any of us alive."

Tritter raised a single eyebrow, clearly impressed with House's reasoning. He had obviously thought this out. The offer was at the very least intriguing – but Tritter was still trying to find the catch.

House's tone hardened slightly, his eyes glittering with bitter, malicious satisfaction as he drove the final nail into the deal. "Come on. I know these past few months can't have been fun for you. A rapist cop in prison with hardened criminals he's probably put away himself – and most likely unfairly? There's no question as to how you've spent your time." House's voice lowered, taking on a quality that was both mocking and enticing at once. "Must have been incredibly traumatic for you – not to mention frustrating. Bet you'd like to make me pay. Wouldn't you like to have the time to _really_ take it out on me?"

Tritter's features twisted into furious rage, and he struck out once more with the pistol across House's face, knocking him off his knees and onto his face on the floor. A moment later, a fierce hand seized House's hair in a searing grip, jerking him painfully back up onto his knees and leaning in very close to his face.

"Oh, you'd better _believe_ I will," Tritter hissed. "You don't know what you've just agreed to, House. But I believe I'll accept your offer – and you're going to spend every day for the rest of your life paying for the things that have happened to me these last few months. By the end of the first week, you'll wish yourself dead – but you _won't_ be. Not for a long, _long_ time."

Tritter released House with a rough shove, standing up straight again and taking aim with his gun at House's head as he ordered coldly, "Get the morphine."

House obeyed without a word, and immediately headed toward Cuddy, a filled hypodermic needle in hand. Her eyes were wide with fear as House approached her, though Wilson could not tell whether that fear was for herself, or for House and the horrific situation in which he had just willingly placed himself. House's expression was calm and compassionate, silently soothing, as he placed a gentle, steadying hand at the back of her head and swiftly injected the medication into the side of her neck.

Within moments, Cuddy was unconscious.

Wilson shook his head slowly as House approached him, his expression solemn and troubled. Tritter watched with a smile of grim amusement, silently taking in the drama unfolding before him.

"House… you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do."

"No," Wilson insisted, his voice trembling with frustration as he pulled uselessly at his bonds. "Damn it, House – you choose _now_ to go all self-sacrificing on me?"

"It's not self-sacrifice," House stated in a soft, even voice that Wilson found thoroughly unconvincing. "It's simple logic. We can all be raped, tortured, and murdered – or one of us. It's basic math."

Wilson flinched at the brutality of the words, technically true, but too horrific for him too fathom. When House finally met his eyes, Wilson froze momentarily, trying to read the intense, wordless message in House's focused, urgent gaze. House's voice grew softer as he continued in a subtly pointed tone.

"You said it yourself, Wilson. I'm the only one who can keep this from happening to us. And… if this is the only way I can do that, well…" He shrugged, raising his arm to bring the needle to Wilson's neck – and allowing Wilson, but not Tritter behind him, a brief glimpse of silver metal tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. "… then this is what I have to do."

Wilson showed no sign in his expression of what he had seen, simply kept his urgent, worried eyes focused on House.

"You don't have to do this," he repeated, his voice a hoarse, fading whisper as the drug swiftly began to take effect.

Wilson's last thought was that he really hoped House knew what he was doing – before darkness overtook him, and he was aware of nothing more.


	65. Chapter 65

House had spent most of his life feeling alone. It was a state to which he had become accustomed during his nearly fifty years of life.

But as Wilson lost consciousness, his eyes drifting closed and his head falling to the side again, House found himself beset with the deepest, most dreadfully complete feeling of utter loneliness that he had ever experienced. He knew without any shadow of doubt that there was no one to help him, no one to defend him. He was alone in his worst nightmare – and only he had the power to defeat the monster looming behind him.

A shiver of revulsion ran down House's spine as he felt Tritter's rough, hot fingers trail along the side of his neck, closing around his throat and pulling him backward against the intimidating bulk of his own body. Tritter's free hand trailed under the edge of House's shirt, sliding across his stomach with sickening gentleness.

"Just the two of us now, House," he murmured in his ear, warm, damp breath on his skin drawing a wave of bile up his throat. "And you're all mine. Just imagine… the things I'm going to do to you… things I didn't have time to do the last time. This time, we've got the rest of your life to work with. And _I_ decide how long that's going to be, so you're going to be really good and quiet and cooperative. Aren't you, House?"

House nodded, swallowing against the restriction of Tritter's hand, his own hands held out in front of him in a gesture of surrender, as Tritter began to drag him slowly toward the door. House made sure that he offered no resistance – not now, when any attempt was certain to be doomed to failure. He would wait until the right time came to use the weapon he had tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Say goodbye to your friends, your apartment… your old _life_, House. Because it's over. From this moment on, you're not a big shot doctor – not a genius diagnostician. You are _nothing_… nothing but _mine_," Tritter sneered.

House's stomach lurched at the thought – although he had no intention of allowing the situation to have the kind of permanency he had suggested to Tritter.

He had no intention of allowing Tritter to _touch_ him – not like _that_.

_Never again._

Tritter allowed his hand to fall from House's throat to a much less conspicuous position on his arm, then pulled him through the doorway, simultaneously taking his gun from his waistband and pressing it into House's ribcage in a wordless warning to silence. The walk to the car was awkward and painful for House, without the aid of his cane, and he remembered with a cautious sense of anticipation that his cane was still in the backseat of his car, where Tritter had left it.

_One more potential weapon… if he gives me a chance to use it…_

Of course, Tritter had no intention of doing that.

He dragged House around to the driver's side of the car, shoving him down into the front seat and holding the gun to his head as he reached into his pocket and took out a pair of police issue handcuffs. With one swift motion, he fastened House's left wrist to the steering wheel, then crouched beside him so that they were at eye level, smiling coldly as he pressed the gun hard behind House's ear. His voice was softly warning, sending an apprehensive shiver through House's stomach with his simple, matter-of-fact words.

"If you scream, or touch the horn at all – I'll shoot you in the head, then go inside and kill your friends, too. I'd be gone before anyone could even think to contact the authorities. Are we clear?"

House nodded, eyes closed, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat as Tritter slowly removed the gun, rising to his feet again and closing the driver's door. He then opened the back door and took House's cane, before moving around to open the trunk and place it inside. Once Tritter was in the passenger seat, he held the gun to House's ribs again and handed him the car keys.

"Drive."

House spent the next interminable twenty-four hours doing just that.

With one hand cuffed to the steering wheel, and Tritter's gun almost constantly jammed into his side, it was impossible for House to make a move, as his car carried them, mile by mile, ever nearer to a place where Tritter would become virtually untouchable – at least from a legal point of view.

On the positive side – House had no intention of leaving Tritter's fate to the legal system again.

On the negative side – his situation was looking more and more desperate and hopeless, as Tritter seemed determined not to let his guard down for a moment.

They stopped for gas twice along the way, and both times Tritter took House into the station with him, keeping his gun within ready reach, and warning him beforehand that if he tried to get away or get help, he would not be the only one to suffer for the attempt. Despite Tritter's threats, House was tempted to make his move during those times when they were in public, but ultimately decided against it, unwilling to take a chance on getting some innocent bystander hurt in the process.

In the car a couple of times along the way, once they had passed the halfway point of their journey, the gentle, rhythmic motion of the car began to lull Tritter into sleep. House thought about how easy it would be to take the gun from his pocket, to simply aim and pull the trigger, and end Tritter's life as he slept.

_It'd make a bitch of a mess of my car… but what the hell? I could use a new one. And it would _so _be worth it..._

However, each time, before he could work up his courage to act, Tritter would catch himself, shaking himself back to alertness – and proceeding to take his alarm and irritation at his own near mistake out on House. The first time, he put the gun to House's head and forced him to pull the car over to the side of the road. House flinched as Tritter pulled the hammer back on the pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"You think you can pull one over on me that easily, House?" he snarled in a low, menacing voice that made House's stomach drop.

He was suddenly certain that Tritter knew about the gun, knew about his secret plans – and all was utterly lost. He shook his head hurriedly, gasping as he struggled to control his physical reaction of panic.

"N-no," he whispered. "No, I-I didn't…"

"You think I'm stupid, House? You think I didn't notice the way your speed's been gradually increasing for the last half hour?"

House barely had time to register the relief at the knowledge that Tritter had not found out about the gun, before a new threat became the focus of his attention. Tritter's voice softened to a tone of deceptively indulgent amusement, as he ran his free hand slowly, suggestively up House's right leg, his large hand closing around his thigh in a none-too-subtle warning.

"No," House insisted, his voice trembling with fear. "I wasn't trying to… I didn't mean to… please… _please_…"

Tritter pretended to consider for a moment, a cold, cruelly mocking smile on his lips. "I don't know, House. I'm not sure I believe you." He paused, his tone falsely thoughtful. "But then… I _do_ want you to be capable of driving for the next twelve hours or so. Maybe I should just let this one slide, you think?"

House nodded desperately, relief mingled with his terror as it became apparent that Tritter was not going to follow through with his threats – at least not for the moment. The next time that Tritter seemed to be drifting off, House couldn't bring himself to even _think_ of going for the gun. He kept his attention focused carefully on the road, terrified that Tritter would awaken and, in anger born of his paranoia, react once more to nothing.

Tritter roused himself within moments, anyway, and House was relieved that he hadn't dared to take a chance yet, when that chance clearly would have been wasted. After that, Tritter apparently decided that it was a good idea to keep himself awake by filling the empty hours with long, detailed descriptions of the things he intended to do to House once he had him alone, helpless, and entirely under his power in a place where the American legal system could no longer touch him.

By the time they had finally crossed the border into Mexico and Tritter had rented a room for them in a tiny, out-of-the-way motel, House was on the verge of passing out from sheer exhaustion. He had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, the greater part of which had been fraught with terror and trauma, kept awake only by the constant threat of incurring Tritter's wrath if he should happen to fail to obey his orders.

House was utterly unresisting as Tritter dragged him out of the car… didn't even think of pulling away or trying to go for his gun as Tritter hauled him into the motel room and away from any chance of help… but was overwhelmed by panic strong enough to break through his exhaustion when Tritter shoved him down onto the bed farthest from the door, then climbed onto the bed on top of him, straddling his waist and taking out the handcuffs again.

"No," House objected in a voice of trembling desperation, struggling instinctively as Tritter caught his wrist and pulled it toward the headboard. "No, _don't_…!"

Tritter's mouth twisted into an irritated grimace as he drew back his fist without hesitation, slamming it down across House's face and silencing his pleading protest. Not giving him time to recover, he grabbed a fistful of House's hair and jerked him up, leaning down so that his face was inches from House's, as he snarled furiously in his face.

"You _agreed_ to this, House. Now you're gonna shut your stupid mouth and _stop_ fighting and do as you're told!"

A creeping sense of despair began to overwhelm House as Tritter fastened his wrists to the headboard with the handcuffs, leaving him utterly helpless on the bed, unable to make any attempt to defend himself, or even to disguise the presence of the gun under his jacket – of which House was now more acutely aware than ever, terrified that once Tritter started to touch him, he would immediately discover it, and either kill him then and there for daring to conceal it to begin with, or simply take it, leaving House truly at his mercy, with no hope of escape.

Tritter's smiled down at House with cold triumph, trailing his hands slowly, possessively down his sides, his smile widening when House turned his head away, closing his eyes, shuddering under his touch. Tritter withdrew his hands, reaching into his own pocket and taking out the meager remnants of a roll of duct tape – presumably the one he had used to gag Cuddy and Wilson – and proceeded to do the same to House, covering his mouth with the tape to be sure that he was quiet for… whatever it was he intended to do to him next.

However, to House's amazement – and immense relief – Tritter seemed to be just as exhausted as he was.

After a moment, Tritter rose from the bed, leaning down to touch House's cheek in a parody of affection, smiling coldly into his eyes as he murmured soft, warning words.

"You just keep still and go to sleep like the good little _slave_ you are now, House… and when we're both feeling a little more rested, then… _then_… we'll play…"


	66. Chapter 66

"Okay… slow down and tell me again exactly how this happened…"

Wilson let out a heavy sigh of frustration, letting his head fall back to rest against the cool, white pillow behind him. He rolled his eyes before shutting them tightly against the too-bright lighting of the hospital room he had occupied for the past few hours.

"I've told you the story a dozen times already," he reminded the calm, overly polite FBI agent who was still questioning him about his encounter with Tritter instead of doing anything that appeared to be even remotely helpful. "How is telling it again going to help you find my friend? I told you – they're headed for Mexico. You need to have roadblocks at all the most likely routes…"

"We've got that under control, Dr. Wilson," the agent interrupted him with a sort of patronizing, false patience that grated on Wilson's already frayed nerves. "We're doing all we can to ensure that Tritter doesn't escape across the border…" He paused, looking away, and Wilson turned his head away with a visible wince, reading in the man's expression the words he'd tactfully left unsaid.

_If he hasn't crossed the border already…_

"How did he get away in the first place?" Wilson snapped, the cold knot of fear in his stomach expressing itself in a trembling tone of frustrated fury. "How did he get out of prison? House thought he was _safe_! After everything he went through… the… the _nightmare_ of that trial… only to find out that it did him no good whatsoever… Tritter was _still_ able to get to him!"

"We're investigating that as well, Dr. Wilson. We're looking into the prison staff on duty at the presumed time of Tritter's escape. It appears that he managed to either bribe or coerce one of the guards at the time into assisting him in his escape…"

"Yeah, and no one even guessed that anything was wrong until we had to call and _suggest_ that _maybe_ you should check it out – _at least_ 24 hours after his escape!"

"… but right now…" The agent's voice was severe, authoritative, as he persisted. "I'm sure you'd agree that our priority is to find Tritter himself – and your friend, Dr. House."

Wilson's anger withered under the man's quietly challenging stare, and he looked away again with a heavy sigh of defeat.

"We need you to be as cooperative as possible with this investigation – to give us every detail that you can possibly remember. It might give us some idea as to _exactly_ where he was headed, and therefore the most likely route he would have taken. If we can find a way to trace his steps, we'll be more likely to find your friend…"

Wilson took no comfort or hope from the FBI agent's carefully phrased words. He heard in the man's tone the unpleasant assumptions he had already reached, and shuddered as he tried not to allow his mind to go there.

_If he's even still alive… if Tritter hasn't killed him already. They want to trace his steps, to find House – but they're expecting to find his _body_, not to find him alive…_

Suddenly, Wilson felt utterly exhausted, as if he couldn't even find the strength to raise his head again. He couldn't stand to tell the story again, to describe the way Tritter had tormented and humiliated his friend, terrorizing him until he had submitted to the worst fate imaginable, in order to save the lives of Wilson and Cuddy. The idea of recounting the events of the night before made him feel sick to his stomach. His head ached, filled with a fuzzy, hot sensation, as he shook his head without opening his eyes.

"I… I can't… can't do this anymore right now…"

"All right, Dr. Wilson needs to rest now."

Wilson glanced toward the doorway, relieved to see Foreman standing in the doorway.

Jenna had come by the apartment the morning after Tritter had taken House, concerned after calling the hospital and being told that Wilson, House, and Cuddy had not shown up for work that morning, and hadn't called, either. She had immediately called for help when she found Wilson and Cuddy unconscious, and Foreman had happened to be working in the clinic when they were brought in.

With Cuddy, House, and Wilson all out of commission for the moment, he had naturally stepped in and assumed responsibility for Wilson's and Cuddy's treatment. Their tox screens revealed the morphine with which they had been dosed – and filled House's worried team with mingled relief and dread.

Wilson and Cuddy would be fine – but with House missing, and the manner in which they had been found, there was only one conclusion which they could reach.

Foreman had called the authorities, suggesting immediately that they question Tritter and find out if he had anything to do with House's disappearance. At that point, the idea that the former detective had escaped had not even crossed his mind; he simply thought that some of Tritter's criminal connections might have been responsible.

It was when the guards went to Tritter's cell to take him to a holding room for questioning that they discovered he was missing. Immediately, the missing persons investigation became an official kidnapping investigation, and the FBI was called in.

The problem was that the only witnesses to what had occurred were still unconscious.

_And now, it doesn't matter how much we tell them – how many _times _we tell them – it's too late. It was too late already when we woke up. _

Wilson's chest ached, and he closed his eyes against the despairing tears that burned behind them as Foreman coolly and politely ushered the FBI agent from the room.

_The only one who can save House now – is House._

*****************************

"Wake up… I've got a surprise for you…"

Tritter's voice of softly mocking menace, his sickeningly gentle hands trailing over House's body, drew him from sleep with a rush of panic. His stomach lurched as Tritter's hands slipped down his sides, dangerously close to the concealed pistol in his jacket pocket, and House remembered all at once where he was, what had happened, and how thoroughly helpless he was at the moment.

_Wait… surprise?_

House fought back a surge of panic at the horrible thought that Tritter might have found the gun already, and intended to punish House for his attempted rebellion. He knew that if that was the case, then said punishment would be the least of his concerns.

When House felt one of Tritter's hands leave his side, and a moment later, cold steel against his temple, he closed his eyes, swallowing hard as he flinched at the contact and hoped against hope that it was _Tritter's_ gun, and not his own, that was being held to his head.

If Tritter had the gun, then his last chance had passed.

"Now if I take the tape off your mouth… you're not going to scream, are you, House? You know better than that… don't you?"

House nodded, not opening his eyes, his mouth dry with terror, as he struggled to control his breathing, struggled not to let his visible fear betray him, on the off chance that Tritter had not yet discovered his secret weapon. He winced as Tritter roughly ripped the tape from his mouth, but dutifully kept silent, not daring to make a sound.

"Good boy," Tritter murmured, trailing the gun down House's cheek in a chilling imitation of a tender caress. "That's good, House. You just keep quiet and do as you're told… and I'll try not to make this hurt any worse than it's already going to."

Tritter's hands moved to the front of House's jeans, deftly unfastening the button and pulling his zipper down, and House fought back a sick wave of revulsion. He shook his head in helpless despair, well aware that there was nothing he could do to stop Tritter from doing whatever he wanted to do to him.

"Do _not_ fight me, House," Tritter muttered a cold warning. "You just remember… you're _mine_ now, and you'll do as you're told."

House was surprised and relieved when Tritter's hands left his jeans and moved to unfasten the handcuffs that held him to the headboard of the bed – and even more relieved when as he cautiously lowered his arms, he felt the reassuring weight of the pistol inside his jacket, and knew that Tritter had not yet found him out. However, his momentary relief vanished as Tritter's hard hands found his hips again and roughly tried to turn him over.

Fighting off panic, House could not keep his hands from moving to Tritter's arms in a hesitant, pleading gesture. He met Tritter's eyes, his own wide and desperate, as he shook his head rapidly, his voice trembling with dread as he whispered a frantic plea.

"No… no, p-please… please, don't…"

Tritter's expression was uncertain, shifting between anger at House's resistance, however humble and submissive, and false sympathy – and finally settling into a condescending smile of patronizing patience.

"House… you know you don't have a choice here, don't you? This is _going_ to happen." Tritter's smile shifted into a cruel smirk as he added, "Again and again… for the rest of your life…"

"I know," House whispered, nodding hurriedly, his thoughts racing. "I… I know, I just… it's just that…" As he spoke, House slid his hand hesitantly up Tritter's arm in a touch that was subtly suggestive. "… maybe it could wait. Maybe there's… something else I could do… right now."

Angry and alarmed at the unexpectedly enticing touch, Tritter grasped House's wrist in a crushing grip, forcing his arm down across his chest and pinning it there so hard that House winced at the painful pressure of the hidden gun between his arm and his chest. Tritter drew back his free hand, clenched into a fist and ready to strike out across House's face, in a blow intended to remind him of his place and show him what would happen if he touched his new master without permission.

Before the blow could fall, House's free hand shot out as well – finding an unlikely target, with startling purpose.

Tritter gasped in stunned pleasure as he felt House's hand cup the bulge in the front of his pants with a grip that was firm yet gentle, then stroke it lightly, drawing it to greater fullness of desire. Tritter bit back a groan of pleasure – then abruptly grabbed House's wrist in a bruising, punishing grip and yanked it up to his chest as well, pinning both his arms with one hand, as his other hand clutched House's throat. Tritter's lips twisted in fury as he tightened his hold until House could not draw breath, pressing his thumb brutally into the hollow of House's throat relentlessly as his captive gasped uselessly for the breath Tritter's grip denied him.

"What do you think you're doing, House?" Tritter demanded, teeth clenched in angry accusation. "Huh? What are you trying to pull?"

At last, Tritter eased his grip, giving House a moment to draw in several desperate, gulping draughts of much-needed air, before returning his hand to House's throat in a much looser grip that still served as a very effective warning.

"Answer me, House." Tritter's voice was warning. "What are you up to, huh? What do you think you're going to accomplish by trying to play me like that?"

"N-nothing," House whispered, his voice raspy from Tritter's assault on his throat. "I-I wasn't. I just… just wanted to… to thank you for… for sparing… my friends…" He looked up to meet Tritter's eyes, giving a weak little half-shrug as he added with stark honesty, "That, and… and I was hoping… to maybe… satisfy you with… a little less than what you were going for."

Tritter stared at him, understanding gradually dawning in his eyes – and then burst into smug, raucous laughter that faded into a cold sneer of satisfaction.

"You know," he murmured in a low, suggestive voice that send a shudder of disgust and terror down House's spine. "I think it's great… how hard you're trying to get out of this… how terrified you are of my touching you…" He drew his hand slowly down House's cheek, smiling as House flinched away from his touch. "… and I _love_… how willing you are to please me… what an eager little _slut_ you are, House…"

Tritter straightened, looking speculatively down at House's trembling form pinned beneath him – his chest heaving with his desperate gasps for breath, the convulsive swallow in his throat as he closed his eyes and turned his head away in shame – then spoke again in a decisive tone.

"Yeah. I think I'll give you a chance."

Tritter rose off of House, and as his weight was removed from House's body, brushing accidentally against his throbbing leg as he moved, House remembered that it had been over a day and a half since his last Vicodin. The thought filled him with a desperate longing that threatened to steal his focus, to swallow up the half-formed plan rising in his mind – and he fought it back, forcing himself to think only of the task ahead of him, and what he was going to have to do to save his own life.

Tritter stood beside the bed, arms crossed imperiously as he fixed House with a cold stare.

"Get up… and get on your knees."


	67. Chapter 67

As House cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thigh was consumed with a searing, explosive burst of agony, and he bit back the strangled cry that rose in his throat. It had been far too long since his last Vicodin – much longer than he was used to going without it – but he did not want to call Tritter's attention to that fact. He knew very well that if Tritter realized, it would give him one more weapon to use against him – and at the moment, the odds were as much against House as he could stand.

Tritter stood facing him as House rose on shaking legs, one hand braced on the night stand for support, then lowered himself slowly and painfully to his knees on the floor, as Tritter had commanded. House fought against the sick swell of panic blooming in his chest, well aware that as long as Tritter was watching him so closely, he didn't dare make a move for the gun concealed beneath his jacket.

And unfortunately, that gun was the only thing that stood between him and another incident of brutal degradation.

House felt a trapped, claustrophobic sensation fill him, his brow breaking out in a cold sweat, as Tritter took several slow, measured steps closer to him, until he was standing directly in front of his kneeling captive. House closed his eyes, swallowing hard as Tritter pressed his own gun firmly against House's temple, his other hand running through his hair in an unsettlingly gentle, possessive gesture. Tritter's voice was soft, calm, utterly in control, as he issued further orders.

"You're going to do just as I tell you, and you're not going to try anything stupid, House. You know why? Because you're not worth the trouble… and if you give me any, I'll just kill you right now and be done with it. On the other hand… if you do a _really_ good job, and make me really happy, well… I _might_ just let you wait another day to do anything more. All right?"

House nodded quickly, his eyes still closed and downcast, his heart racing as he struggled to focus on the situation at hand, well aware that he would only have one chance, and if he failed to take it, or misjudged the timing by even a fraction of a second, he would be dead in the next instant.

"Good," Tritter murmured in the same disturbingly reassuring tone, as if he were speaking to a small, not-particularly-bright child. "Very good. Now… why don't you go ahead and get started?"

House reached for the front of Tritter's pants with trembling, uncertain hands, flinching slightly when Tritter pressed a bit harder with the gun at his head, a wordless warning against attempting to take advantage of the somewhat vulnerable state in which Tritter was about to be.

House had every intention of taking advantage, however – because he knew that it was likely to be the only opportunity he would have.

Still, he kept his motions slow, cautious, and tentative, as he slid Tritter's zipper down and carefully maneuvered the large man's rather intimidating erection from the confines of his pants.

"That's it," Tritter murmured, staring down at House through eyes that were heavy-lidded with lust at his own power. "Good… nice and slow…"

House was sickened by Tritter's words and tone more than by the fact that he was being forced to touch his rapist, required to bring him pleasure simply to survive. In fact, once Tritter's swollen, reddened member was in his hand, House actually felt a rush of anticipation at the knowledge that, although Tritter thought himself to be utterly in control of the situation, he was about to take back the power this man had stolen from him.

If he could only get past the sense of paralyzing terror that threatened to rise up within him at the thought of making his move… only to have it fail, and leave him still at Tritter's mercy, and worse, facing his wrath as a result of his act of defiance.

House slid his hand slowly up and down the length of Tritter's erection, trying hard not to think about exactly what it was he was doing, and instead to focus on what he was _about_ to do.

He just had to wait until Tritter was just a _little bit_ distracted…

When House felt the muzzle of the gun shift slightly at his head so that it was no longer pressed directly against his temple, but angled slightly downward toward the floor – still close enough that Tritter felt secure in its threat, but not close enough to do instantaneous damage without being re-aimed – he knew that it was time to make his move.

"Don't think you're… gonna get by with that," Tritter muttered, his head falling back slightly, his words divided by a shuddering gasp of pleasure at House's touch. "You're gonna have to… use a little bit more than… than just your hand… if you wanna get by without…"

"I-I know," House hurriedly replied, suppressing a shudder at the chilling suggestion of Tritter's words, well aware that, should his plan fail, Tritter would not be likely to honor his promise not to rape House that night, anyway. "I will… I'm just… just… working up to it…"

"Right," Tritter muttered, a note of impatience in his voice. "Work… faster."

"Okay," House replied in a low, subdued voice, barely over a whisper, swallowing hard to moisten his dry throat. "Okay… just… give me a minute…"

House took Tritter's command as an opportunity to intensify the pressure he was applying with his hand, drawing Tritter to a point of further distraction, and subtly sliding his hand further into Tritter's open pants. He struggled against the light-headed, sick feeling of panic that threatened to overwhelm him as he prepared to make his move.

_Don't think, don't think, just act… just do it before you can think yourself out of it…_

Before he could change his mind, House stroked his thumb slowly down the inside of Tritter's thigh in what he hoped passed for a sensual gesture – then abruptly pressed directly into a particular spot, as hard as he could, holding his breath as he waited for the expected result.

Tritter collapsed forward onto his knees with a surprised grunt of pain, his grip on his gun going slack and allowing the weapon to fall to the floor. House quickly snatched it up as he scrambled backward away from Tritter's writhing, moaning form, trying to get out of the larger man's reach before he could recover enough to retaliate.

He only stopped when his back hit the wall at the foot of the bed farthest from the door, and he struggled to pull himself to his feet without the aid of his cane, still locked in the trunk of his car. After a few wasted, panicked moments spent trying to get a good enough grip on the bed to stand up, House realized that his frighteningly limited time would be better spent on more important things – like the gun.

_If he gets up before I can get to it… if he gets to me before I can stop him… I'm dead… if I'm lucky… _

He spent several frantic moments fumbling for the weapon concealed in his jacket, helplessly watching as Tritter struggled to his knees with a groan, the pain gradually fading enough to allow him to react to House's rebellion. Then, all at once, House remembered _Tritter's_ gun, still in his hand – and every bit as useful as the one he was trying so hard to access.

_Stupid, stupid… focus, come on, _focus_… he's already getting up…_

"You little _shit_," Tritter muttered through clenched teeth, bracing himself on the bed beside him as he pulled himself slowly to his feet. "What the hell did you _do_ to me?"

House held the gun up in front of him with both hands, struggling to control their trembling enough to maintain a steady aim on his slowly advancing opponent.

"Pressure point," he answered automatically, the words falling from his lips without the need to consciously think of the answers beforehand. "There's a very effective one in the upper inner thigh that can momentarily incapacitate a man – bring him to his knees with pain and make him lose control of his extremities long enough to, say… lose control of any dangerous weapons he might be holding at the time."

"Great," Tritter replied, an ugly, malicious smile forming on his lips through the pain that still lingered, as he took one unsteady, lurching step closer to where House huddled against the wall across the room. "Too bad your moment's up now."

"But it's not," House insisted, his voice shaking, but carrying a note of defiance, as he raised the gun slightly in his hands, bravely holding Tritter's menacing gaze. "I've got the gun, and you've got nothing. Don't come any closer to me."

"Please," Tritter scoffed, stopping a moment at the edge of the first bed, one hand braced on it as he struggled to catch his breath. He was seemingly unaffected by the sight of his own gun in House's hand. "You really expect me to be afraid of you?"

"You should be." House's voice was quiet, gradually growing steadier with his rising confidence. "I'm a pretty good shot. And since I _do_ happen to be a doctor, I know exactly where to aim for maximum effect."

"Oh, I don't doubt that you know where to shoot, or how to shoot," Tritter replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, straightening again and closing even more of the distance between them. "I just don't think you can actually do it – actually take another human life." His voice softened, and a cold smile formed on his lips. "And I think you've learned your lessons a little too well, House. I don't think you'll dare pull that trigger. I don't think you've got it in you to kill me."

"I don't have to kill you." House's expression was emotionless, his eyes wide and solemn, his hands no longer trembling on the gun they bore. "I just have to _stop_ you – and I know _exactly_ where to aim to accomplish _that_ as quickly as possible."

Tritter's eyes widened with horrified understanding as he realized what House was saying – a moment before House pulled the trigger.

Searing agony tore through Tritter's groin, as blood poured from his mutilated genitals, still exposed from his last attempt to violate House. With a scream of pain, Tritter dropped to his knees once more, his hands falling to cover the damaged area, but unable to ease the pain or the bleeding. A second bullet reduced the meager shield of his hands to ribbons, followed by a third that ensured that surgical repair to Tritter's manhood would not be an option.

Naturally, Tritter was utterly unaware, lost in his own torment, as House tried once more to get to his feet – and in the absence of his former panic, found it surprisingly easy this time. A sort of calm, detached feeling overcame House as he made his way in slow, limping steps to stand over his former abuser, staring down at the wreckage to which he had reduced him in the space of a few moments.

House was no longer aware of the throbbing ache in his over-taxed thigh… no longer felt that overwhelming sensation of sick terror in the pit of his stomach… was not even aware of the tears of relief and righteous satisfaction that streaked his face, until he felt a warm drop of moisture on the back of his hand, and stared down at it in a sort of detached surprise. He slowly looked back to Tritter, watching coolly, impassively, as the larger man writhed on the floor in agony, grinding out curses and cries of pain through clenched teeth.

"If nothing else," House stated softly, unsure even if Tritter was able to hear him above the sounds of his own suffering, "I've made sure you'll never be able to hurt anyone else again – not like you did before. I've always believed that the punishment should fit the crime."

Apparently, House's quiet words did manage to register in Tritter's pain-wracked mind, and served to draw a fevered, helpless rage from his lips.

"You stupid little _bitch_!" Tritter spat. "You think this is _over_? I'll kill you, House! I don't care if I go back to prison, don't care how far you try to run… I'm going to keep coming after you, and I'm going to _destroy_ you and everyone you love! This will _never_ be over for you; I'll just keep coming and keep coming until I've made you pay for this. You are _dead_, House! _Dead_!"

House seemed unmoved by Tritter's threats, staring down at him as a slow, strange smile began to form on his lips. His voice was soft, barely over a whisper, as he responded with a single word.

"Thanks."

Tritter frowned, puzzled and alarmed. "For what?"

"For giving me the reason I need to do what _I_ deserve."

Without hesitation, he raised the gun and fired again. This time, the bullet struck Tritter in the place where his upper thigh met his groin, eliciting a fountain of blood that began to pour from the wound with alarming speed. Tritter's right hand shifted in an instinctive attempt to stem the flow, as he stared back and forth between the injury and the man who had inflicted it, the horror of realization dawning in his eyes.

"I've got the perfect story," House explained quietly, simply watching with cool detachment. "You were trying to rape me again, and I just couldn't take it. I was aiming for your dick, in an emotion-fueled desire to stop you and avenge what you've done to me… but I'm a doctor, not a marksman… so I missed..." House held Tritter's gaze, his own dark and intent as he added, "… and in the process happened to accidentally hit a crucial artery located in the upper thigh. Before I could realize what I'd done, I fired again, several times, into your groin – not a single one of those shots intended to kill, only to defend myself against being raped again. Completely justifiable homicide – manslaughter at worst."

House was quiet for a few moments, allowing the impact of his words to sink in before delivering another blow.

"Once that particular artery is severed, the average man bleeds out in less than six minutes…" He glanced down at his watch before meeting Tritter's eyes again. "… which means I've got about five minutes to wait before going to find help."

Panic slowly rose in Tritter's eyes as he watched House's face, saw the solemn honesty in his eyes as he spoke his cold words, dooming Tritter to his fate. Desperately, Tritter clutched at the wounds, struggling to staunch the flow of blood, to no avail.

"You can't just _do_ this!" he sputtered. "You can't just _stand_ there and watch me die!"

"No, you're right. I can't," House agreed, waiting a moment before limping past Tritter and falling heavily into a chair near the door, still within sight of his fallen foe. "It's been a while since my last Vicodin. I'd better sit down for this."

"What about the Hippocratic oath? You're a _doctor_, for God's sake! What about that moral code of yours, House?" Tritter argued in a bitterly accusing voice. "What about your twisted set of personal ethics that you're so unwilling to back down from? Your code says it's all right to idly sit by and watch a man suffer and bleed to death?"

"My code says I needed a very good reason," House countered quietly, no trace of guilt or hesitation on his face. "It says that the only way I could kill you is if I knew beyond any doubt that it was the only way to keep you from killing me and the people I love – and you removed that doubt. Thanks for that."

A soft, ironic smile crossed House's lips, his eyes devoid of any pity, as he stared down at Tritter, watching as his life's blood poured from his veins to soak the cheap carpet of the motel floor.

"However… my code doesn't say a damn thing about your death being quick or easy."

By the time House limped hurriedly from the motel room to the front desk to get help four minutes later – Tritter was unconscious.

By the time the local police arrived in the company of an ambulance – he was dead.


	68. Chapter 68

"Okay… for the last time… here's how it happened…"

House lowered his head to rest in one hand, his arms crossed on the table in front of him, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he prepared to tell his story again to the Mexican police sitting across the table from him. Aching with sheer exhaustion – not to mention the leg pain that had returned with a vengeance as the adrenaline high wore off – House was so tired that he could barely hold his head up anymore.

And yet, the questions kept coming.

_Good thing I'm fluent in Spanish. Otherwise this might be seriously unpleasant._

He had explained to them three times already how he had come to be in Mexico in the company of a convicted felon and prison escapee, how Tritter had come to be both of those things, and how he had killed Tritter accidentally in an attempt to defend himself from being sexually assaulted again. Each time, his story was precisely the same – which was exactly what he knew they were looking for, the reason for their asking him over and over.

The fact that he understood the reasoning behind it did not make it any less frustrating and exhausting.

The knowledge that with each successful retelling their confidence in his credibility seemed to increase, _did_, however.

He was the sole witness to a suspicious death, and the admitted administering agent of that death. There was no way that they could simply let him go until they knew the details of the situation – and not just from his word on the matter. However, his calm, detailed, starkly accurate descriptions seemed to be gradually reassuring them that he was telling the truth.

_So why are they making me talk about all of this_ again?

"Have you contacted the FBI yet?" House asked in perfect Spanish, weary impatience evident in his voice. "My friends will have reported this hours ago. Kidnapping is a federal offense in the U.S. The FBI will have some record to back up my story."

"We have a call in to the FBI," the officer questioning him replied in a cool, patient tone. "We haven't received their response yet. As soon as they respond, we'll be able to confirm or disprove your story, and take it from there. But for now… why don't you tell me again about the gun? When did you gain access to the gun, and with what intention?"

House couldn't keep an edge of irritation out of his voice as he sighed heavily. "Well, the answer to the second question should be obvious enough, and I already told you the answer to the first one. My friend distracted Tritter to give me the chance to get the gun. It was our only chance to get away from him… to keep him from killing us…"

"And you… _volunteered_ to go with this man? Even after what you say he did to you?"

"I already told you. It was the only way I could think of to get him away from my friends. If I hadn't made the offer, he'd have killed them. I had to…"

Before House could go on, the door to the questioning room opened, and another officer entered the room. He addressed his coworker in Spanish, casting a carefully blank glance in House's direction, his expression betraying little – but House had no trouble understanding what was being said.

"He's telling the truth. I just got off the phone with the FBI, and the photos they faxed me match both the deceased and the suspect. His friends reported his abduction several hours ago, and the story they told the FBI is a perfect match for his story. The agent in charge of the case said he's on his way here to fill in all the details, and escort Dr. House back across the border."

"Why should I have to wait for this FBI guy?" House spoke up in impatient irritation, rolling his eyes at the startled looks both men gave him, as if neither of them had remembered that he could understand them. "You just said my name's been cleared."

"Not officially," the first officer replied in a slow, cautious tone. "We have to wait for the agent to confirm the details before we can release you."

Defeated and exhausted to the point of surrender, House ran a shaking hand through his dirty, disheveled hair, letting out a deep, heavy sigh. His voice was low, trembling with pain and weariness, already knowing the answer to his weak, barely hopeful question.

"Don't suppose you guys have access to prescription meds of any kind? In all the excitement of being kidnapped and nearly murdered, I seem to have left my painkillers at home."

"I'm sorry." The officer's face bore an apologetic grimace as he shook his head. "We can't give you any kind of medication until we've officially confirmed your identity."

"Figures," House muttered, closing his eyes and resting his head in his hands.

"I understand that this is difficult and frustrating, Dr. House," the officer continued in a gentler, more patient voice. "I assure you, we'll do everything in our power to make you as comfortable as possible while we await the agent's arrival."

True to his word, within hours, the officer had House set up in a comfortable hotel room, with a fully stocked mini-fridge, a thick stack of magazines, and cable television – all in Spanish, of course. House might have forgotten the gravity of his situation, and the fact that, for all the comfort of his surroundings, he was, for the moment, a prisoner – if not for the guard posted outside his door.

Resigning himself to the wait, House lay down on the comfortably firm mattress, resting his head gratefully on the soft pillows, thinking that perhaps he would take advantage of the time to get a little much-needed rest. Needless to say, he had not slept well the night before, his fitful rest interrupted many times during the night by the biting grip of the cuffs that had held him to the bed, or the ever-increasing ache building in his right leg.

If nothing else, sleep would serve to make the wait pass more quickly.

House realized almost immediately, however, that sleep would be long in coming. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind was assailed with vivid images of Tritter's sneering face, sensory memories of Tritter's rough, strong hands roaming possessively over his body as if he were nothing more than Tritter's toy to be used.

House pulled himself up to a sitting position, blinking against the light as he reached for the remote control to turn the television on. He watched a few minutes of some mindless Spanish sitcom, before reaching for the pile of magazines on the floor beside the bed, placing it on the bed beside him and sifting slowly through them, in search of something interesting enough to distract him from his thoughts.

As long as he wasn't trying to sleep, House was surprised – in a vague, detached sort of way – to realize that he felt strangely calm… almost numb, as if the greater part of his mind had not quite processed the reality of all that had happened to him. It felt as if he had watched it happen to someone else, watched someone else take Tritter's life and eliminate the threat he presented forever. It seemed that it hadn't quite sunk in yet.

And as long as he kept himself well-distracted… it wouldn't.

House eventually gave up on the magazines and returned his half-hearted attention to the television, trying to focus on the rather clichéd plot of the romantic drama that had come on following the sitcom. He was too exhausted, too disinterested, to bother changing the channel.

Within a few minutes, his exhaustion overwhelmed him, and before he knew it, House had fallen into a light, fitful sleep, plagued with troubled dreams that caused him to toss and moan and twist the blankets beneath him in trembling, half-formed fists.

His sleep was light enough that when the door to his room opened about six hours later, the soft creaking sound was enough to draw him instantly from it. House sat up more quickly than he would have thought possible, his stomach lurching as he stared at the door through wide, panicked eyes – momentarily utterly convinced, despite all reason and evidence to the contrary, that it would be Tritter walking through that door to take his vengeance.

When he saw who it was, however, irrational panic gave way to grateful relief.

"Wilson," he whispered, his shoulders sagging as he fell back against the headboard, struggling to catch the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "God, Wilson, it's you…"

"House…" Wilson's voice was trembling with emotion as he took a halting step closer to the bed. "God, House… you're alive… I thought… I didn't know… how did you…?"

Wilson gave up on words, shaking his head as he closed the remaining distance between himself and House to crouch beside the bed, reaching out to grasp House's hand in his, in an impulsive gesture of affection.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, studying House's face with tearful, wide-eyed concern. "Are you hurt?"

House stared back at Wilson blankly for a long moment, as if scarcely able to believe that he was really there. Wilson, no longer a bound and threatened prisoner, but here alive and safe and healthy by House's side, lent the entire situation a sense of reality it had lacked in House's mind. His head felt heavy and confused, overwhelmed with a sudden flood of memory and sensation, and House found himself, for once, beyond words.

He just shook his head slowly, not looking away from Wilson's dark, tender gaze.

After a moment, he managed to get a few words out in a hoarse voice, haggard with pain and exhaustion and the overwhelming emotions he was struggling to repress.

"Just… just my leg." House managed a weak, apologetic half-smile as he looked up to meet Wilson's eyes. "You wouldn't… happen to have thought to bring…?"

Wilson nodded without hesitation, a warm smile crossing his lips that House was fairly certain had never been a response to his requests for Vicodin in the past. Without a word of protest or reproof, Wilson reached into his pocket and took out a brand new vial of pills, pressing them into House's palm. Immediately, with a grateful look, House twisted the cap off the vial and poured three of the pills into his palm, swallowing them all at once.

Wilson forced himself not to show any disapproval, or even alarm, at the sheer number of pills House had taken at once, as he continued. "I thought you might need these by the time we found you," he explained. "I picked them up before we left the hospital."

"We?" House echoed, looking pointedly around the room, empty except for them. "You came with… with the FBI agent?"

"Yeah," Wilson confirmed. "We flew in. I already talked with the Mexican authorities. They took my statement, and the FBI agent is finalizing everything with them right now. I guess they just needed official confirmation of what you'd already told them." He shrugged. "Anyway, he told me that whenever you're ready, we can head out. I'll take you to where we're supposed to meet him."

House nodded slowly, eyes downcast as Wilson's words drew him back toward the mental images he was trying so hard to avoid. Wilson's smile faded as he saw the haunted, uncertain look in House's eyes, and he slid his hand up from House's hand to rest on his forearm in a gesture of support and reassurance.

"You did it," he murmured, unmasked admiration in his voice. "You stopped him for good."

House didn't quite meet Wilson's eyes, and for a moment, Wilson wasn't sure House had even heard him. When House did respond at last, his voice was flat, almost unsettlingly calm.

"It was self-defense. I didn't really mean to kill him so much as… shoot his balls off. I… accidentally accomplished both." House looked up to meet Wilson's gaze at last, a deep earnest solemnity in his eyes as he added softly, "We're safe now. He can't hurt us anymore."

A pensive, vaguely troubled frown creased Wilson's brow as he searched House's inscrutable eyes. His voice was soft, cautiously concerned, when he finally spoke again.

"House… are you… _sure_ you're all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Do you… wanna talk about…?"

"I can't think of a single thing I'd like to talk about _less_." House cut him off sharply, turning his head away in self-conscious discomfort.

Wilson wasn't quite ready to give up. He persisted gently, "I know it's hard, but…"

"Just drop it, okay?" House insisted, his voice quiet and strangely calm. "I… _don't_ want to talk about it."

"Okay." Wilson relented immediately, his tone gentle and understanding. "That's fine, House. Whatever you need." He was quiet as he rose to his feet, looking down at House's blank, distant expression with uncertainty and concern for a long moment, before reaching down to carefully help House to his feet. "Let's just go home."


	69. Chapter 69

Within the hour, House and Wilson were on their way back to the States, in a private FBI jet, accompanied by the FBI officer who had handled the kidnapping case. There were magazines available, and built in DVD players in the backs of the seats in front of them, but neither was very interested in such entertainment.

Wilson wished that they could be alone – or at the very least, that the FBI agent might have the perception to seat himself at a distance from them, to allow them to talk. Unfortunately, the agent seemed oblivious to any such signals Wilson might have been giving off, and remained in the seat directly across the aisle from House and Wilson.

Wilson knew that he had not yet heard the whole story of the events leading to Tritter's death; and he also knew that he was not likely to – not as long as there was a chance of anyone else overhearing it.

Of course, House did not seem all that inclined toward conversation, anyway.

A worried frown creased Wilson's brow as he glanced at House, who didn't notice his attention, his haunted blue eyes staring out the window at the clouds drifting by beneath them. He had barely said two words since they had met with the FBI agent and headed toward the plane. He was distant, preoccupied, and almost completely silent during most of the flight.

"House?" Wilson ventured at last in a soft, searching voice. "You okay?"

House didn't look at him, didn't seem to hear him at all.

"_House_," Wilson tried again, a little louder.

House finally looked at him, slightly startled, clearly distracted. "Yeah?" The single word response was barely audible.

"You okay?"

House didn't really consider the question as he immediately looked out the window again, his arms crossed over his chest in an instinctive gesture of self-defense. He didn't speak, simply nodded once in clear dismissal of Wilson's concerns.

Wilson didn't believe him for a moment.

Every now and then during the six hour flight, House would drift off to sleep, and Wilson was reminded that he was still in a state of sheer exhaustion, not having had the opportunity for more than a few hours rest since before his abduction. However, despite his obvious weariness, House would inevitably awaken after only a few minutes of sleep, sitting up with a startled cry or a choked moan of muffled panic.

The first time, Wilson tried to reassure House, reaching out a gentle, steadying hand to rest on his knee.

"It's all right," he murmured. "It's okay, House… it's over."

House just glared at him in stubborn defiance, jerking his leg out of Wilson's reach and glancing self-consciously past his friend to see if the stranger from the FBI had noticed his rather embarrassing reaction. The FBI agent simply stared straight ahead, not acknowledging the men in his charge. If he had noticed House's startled, fearful actions, he wisely did not allow it to show.

"I'm _fine_."

House snapped at Wilson in a low voice, barely over a whisper, physically withdrawing closer to the window and staring out it again, his forehead resting against the cool, smooth surface of the glass.

Within moments, he was asleep again.

Minutes later, he was once again awakening in a panic.

Having learned from his mistakes, Wilson said not a word… just discreetly slipped a hand across the space that separated them, resting it lightly over House's trembling fingers. House looked up at him sharply, uncertainty in his eyes, and Wilson could clearly see his mental debate, as he tried to decide whether or not to allow the comforting contact.

In the end, he did – and the dreams were fewer and farther between for it.

*****************************

By the time they reached the apartment they shared, Wilson was longing for the comfort of his own bed, and knew that House had to be in desperate need of a good rest as well. He was trying to remember if he had any sleep aids on hand – thinking that a dose might be in order to keep House's nightmares at bay long enough to allow him to get a full night's sleep – when House stopped short in the doorway in front of him.

Wilson frowned in momentary confusion, which swiftly faded into horrified understanding, as he followed House's haunted, stricken gaze. Wilson's ordeal had lasted only a few short hours, most of which he had spent unconscious – and yet even he could not look at the familiar living room without seeing in his mind the disturbing image of Tritter, pacing the room and snarling threats, delivering vicious blows to his helpless, terrified friend as he knelt on the floor at his feet.

"We don't have to stay here," Wilson softly assured House, reaching out a cautiously supportive hand to rest on his shoulder. "We can stay in a hotel for the night if you'd rather. And… if you want to find another place… we can do that right away. Tomorrow, if you want."

House was silent for a long moment, shaking his head slowly, his stricken gaze still focused on the living room before him. Finally, he spoke in a low, hoarse voice that was unsettlingly calm.

"I won't… won't let him take this from me, too. Not when he's… he's not even alive to… to…"

House's voice trailed off, and he just shook his head again, moving with slow, painful, but purposeful steps toward his own bedroom. Wilson watched him, uncertain as to whether he should follow, or simply let him go. These days, it was so hard to tell when House needed his space, and when he needed the supportive, reassuring presence of his friend.

The ringing of his cell phone settled the question for him.

When he hung up the phone, Wilson made his way to House's bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. He knocked softly, then opened it a little more, peering tentatively around the door. House was still dressed, sitting on the side of the bed with his back to Wilson, staring into space at nothing in particular with a blank, vacant expression.

"House… that was Cuddy," Wilson informed him gently. "They released her from the hospital a few hours ago. She wants to come over." A soft, apologetic smile formed on his lips, and he shrugged as House slowly turned his head to meet his eyes. "She just wants to make sure you're okay."

House's expression betrayed no emotion, as he nodded slowly, once. "Okay," he whispered, the word barely audible as he turned his head toward the wall again.

"You sure?" Wilson's head tilted slightly as he studied his friend's too-straight posture, the rigid set of his back and the visible tension in every muscle as he sat there, very still and silent. "If you're too tired, I can tell her to wait."

House shook his head without looking at Wilson – then stopped, changing his mind. He looked up at Wilson uncertainly, his voice soft and tentative. "Could you?" he replied at last, unnaturally quiet. "I want to see her, but… but I'm… so tired. If she could just… wait until tomorrow..."

"Of course." Wilson answered immediately in a voice of understanding, nodding as he turned to go.

"How'd you get released before her?"

Wilson stopped, turning to face House again at the soft, curious question. House was looking up at him, expectation but nothing more visible in his piercing blue gaze.

A rueful smile crossed Wilson's lips as he admitted, "I didn't. I signed myself out. Against medical advice."

House's mouth twitched slightly, betraying some flash of emotion, but Wilson couldn't quite identify it. After a moment of silence, however, House's words identified it for him. In a soft voice, thick and hoarse with repressed emotion, House murmured two words that tore at Wilson's heart with the wonder they held – as if the idea of Wilson's taking such reckless actions on his behalf was unbelievable, awe-inspiring.

"Thank you."

In that moment, Wilson wanted nothing more than to go to House and put his arms around him; but he wasn't sure how such a gesture would be received. Instead, he just walked slowly around the bed, resting a hand on House's shoulder until he looked reluctantly up at him, a silent question in his eyes.

Wilson's dark eyes welled with tears as he finally spoke in a hushed, awed voice. "No, House. Thank _you_. You… didn't have to do what you did… didn't have to risk your life for us. But you did."

House lowered his eyes, looking away, uncomfortable with Wilson's praise. Unwilling to either allow him to avoid it, or to physically insist that he face him, Wilson dropped to his knees on the floor in front of House, looking up at him to resume eye contact as he rested a reassuring hand on House's leg. House reluctantly met his eyes again, a wary, reserved expression in his own.

"He would have killed us, House. You stopped him. For good."

House gave a half-hearted little shrug. "Didn't mean to," he muttered. "Accident. Not like I did anything all that heroic."

"Going with him wasn't an accident," Wilson pointed out softly. "Maybe killing him was, but… but you chose to give yourself up in our places, House. You placed yourself in harm's way to protect us. And when it came right down to it… no matter _how_ it happened… you've made certain that he'll never hurt anyone else again."

House was silent, a convulsive swallow visible in his throat, a brief, almost imperceptible flinch betraying his unconscious reaction to Wilson's words. Wilson frowned slightly, taking in his subtle reaction, mentally weighing the situation, trying to decide whether or not to pursue the questions that filled his mind.

"House," he ventured at last. "How… how did it happen, again?"

Instantly, visibly, House closed off to him.

He pulled away from Wilson's hand on his leg, his eyes averted. "I already told you," he insisted with a quiet stubbornness in his voice. "I don't really want to talk about this again. I already told you how it happened…"

"Not really," Wilson persisted cautiously. "I mean… you told me it was self-defense… and that you didn't mean to kill him so much as… castrate him… but…"

"I don't want to talk about this," House repeated, agitation rising in his trembling voice. "I already told you the story…"

"Not the _whole_ story," Wilson stated with quiet certainty. "I know there's more to what happened, that I haven't heard yet…"

"If that's true…" House looked up at Wilson sharply, suddenly meeting his eyes with a stubborn, defiant gaze. "… then you never will. It's my business." He paused, maintaining eye contact, his expression closing off, becoming carefully guarded again, as his voice softened to a calm, quiet tone to match it. "I'm tired," he stated. "Please leave me alone so I can get some sleep."

Wilson was quiet for a moment, torn. He knew House was hiding something, wanted to know what it was – but he wasn't really sure that he had the right to know.

_He's got the right to his secrets. Some things he's seen should never have to be brought to light again, if he doesn't want them to be._

Wilson finally nodded in acceptance and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.


	70. Chapter 70

The soft knock at the door made Wilson's stomach lurch uncomfortably, his eyes drawn up sharply toward the sound, then glancing anxiously toward House's closed bedroom door. House had been asleep an hour earlier, when Wilson had quietly looked in on him, and the sound was far too soft to have awakened him, but Wilson's protective instincts prompted him to concern, nevertheless.

As he rose to his feet and headed toward the door, his mouth was dry with instinctive, irrational fear. Although he had been through far less than the torment House had experienced, Wilson's own trauma had still left its mark in his mind. He drew in a deep, shaky breath, trying to keep the panicked feelings at bay as he reached for the door handle.

_Tritter is dead. It's all over and we're safe now. There's no reason to be afraid._

He forced himself to fight through the feeling of dread and open the door, barely managing to suppress a visible reaction of relief when he saw Cuddy standing there. He smiled, stepping back to allow her to come in.

She gave him a sheepish, almost apologetic smile in return, shrugging slightly. "I know he doesn't want to see anyone, but… I couldn't stay away. And I figured… _you _might want some company."

"That's… probably a very good idea," Wilson conceded, nodding as he led her into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

"How is he?" Cuddy asked as she sat down beside him, glancing toward House's room with an anxious frown.

"Sleeping." Wilson's smile faded as he followed her gaze, before looking forward again to meet Cuddy's questioning expression. "He's exhausted – obviously. When we got home, he just wanted to sleep."

Cuddy's frown deepened slightly as she studied Wilson's face, struck by the oddly hesitant, worried note in his voice. Her voice was slow and cautious as she held his gaze and responded.

"That… _sounds_ normal…"

"I know." Wilson was quiet for a moment, weighing his words before allowing them to come forth. "I just… I think… something's not right. Since we found him in Mexico, he's been so… distant. Quiet. He's hardly said two words to me since we got back, wouldn't talk about what happened…"

"Yes, because House _before_ all this happened to him was such a cheerful little chatterbox." Cuddy rolled her eyes, but her expression softened when she saw that Wilson did not look reassured at all. She reached out a gentle hand to rest on his crossed arms, holding his gaze as she continued. "He's been through hell, Wilson, and then he was forced to relive it – _twice_. House isn't usually the most open person in the world. Can you blame him if he wants to keep this to himself for a while?"

"Yeah, but… _should_ he keep it to himself?" Wilson's voice was dubious. "I mean… it can't be healthy, can it? Holding all that inside? It has to be better if he talks about it."

"For most people, probably, yeah," Cuddy conceded thoughtfully. "But for House… it might be too much right now. He's already dealing with the trauma of everything that happened, combined with the shame of feeling so helpless, so powerless. That, along with the fear and guilt he's got to be feeling… it's all probably just too overwhelming right now, and the last thing he wants is to add someone else's pity to the list."

"Guilt?" Wilson echoed with a frown, his tone slightly defensive for his friend. "He has nothing to feel guilty about. He did what he had to do to survive, and then he went directly to the authorities. He didn't do anything wrong."

Cuddy agreed without hesitation. "Of course he didn't. But, justified or not, he _did _take a human life. And he's still a doctor, Wilson. As much as he'd deny it to your face, that's got to be weighing on him right now. He's trying to come to terms with what happened – and he needs to do that in his own way, without feeling like he's being pushed or forced into a course of action that doesn't work for him."

Wilson was silent, considering her words, and Cuddy looked away at last, leaning back against the sofa with a heavy sigh.

"If it was me," she added, "I'd have left him to rot. Wouldn't have even bothered going to the authorities. House is a better person than I am, just for trying to get help at all."

She kept talking for a while, filling Wilson in on what had happened after he left the hospital in the company of the FBI agent, how Foreman had looked after her and made sure that she was all right, before finally releasing her from the hospital – and only then bothering to inform her that Wilson had gone to Mexico at all.

"I guess he was looking out for the good of the hospital. It really wouldn't do to have _me_ traipsing off to Mexico, too – and he knew I would have."

Wilson laughed, but he was distracted. His thoughts were caught on words Cuddy had spoken earlier in the conversation, a seed of understanding beginning to grow in his mind as he considered House's behavior, and the rehearsed, distant manner in which he had answered Wilson's questions.

Finally, Cuddy left for the evening, promising to return the next day, whenever House decided he felt up to having some company. She told Wilson that neither he nor House would be required to be at work the next day, to take all the time they needed to recover from the ordeal they'd experienced before returning to their duties.

"What about you?" Wilson pointed out gently, giving her a stern look as he walked her to the door. "You had a bit of an ordeal yourself, didn't you?"

Cuddy looked away, shaking her head with a dismissive wave of her hand before reluctantly meeting Wilson's eyes again. Finally, she sighed, "I've taken all the recovery time I can stand. I can't just… sit around and do nothing anymore. House deals by closing off and _not_ dealing. You deal by caring too much about how _House_ is dealing." She paused, her smile fading as she concluded, "I deal by working."

They were both silent for a long moment, before Wilson nodded once in acknowledgement and quietly closed the door behind her.

**************************

Nearly an hour later, Wilson was awakened from a light doze on the sofa by the sound of panicked screams, barely muffled by House's bedroom door. Still half-asleep, he scrambled to his feet, nearly stumbling over the coffee table in his haste to get to House's side. When he finally found his footing, he hurried into House's room, turning on the light as he entered and going around the bed to sit on the side of it.

"House," he said sharply, trying to break through House's sleep enough to gain his attention. "_House_! Wake up!"

"No, get away from me! You can't do this, _I won't let you_! No, _no_!"

House was nearly screaming the words, in utter terror tinged with fury, still fully in the grip of his nightmare. When Wilson placed tentative hands on House's arms in an attempt to wake him, House jerked away from him violently, fighting against his gentle touch, crying out in a guttural voice made nearly incomprehensible by his rage and panic.

"No, don't _touch_ me! Don't you dare _touch_ me, _damn you_!"

"House… you need to wake up… wake up now, House… it's all right…"

Wilson's kept his voice soft and calm, but his heart sank with guilt and sorrow as he tightened his grip on House's arms and shook him slightly, desperate to awaken him and release him from the torment of his dreams. House struggled against him, further panicked for the moment by the restraining touch, but Wilson knew that he had little choice.

House's terror would last as long as he was sleeping.

"House… shhh, it's all right… it's me, it's Wilson… wake up… come on, please wake up…"

All at once, House went limp in Wilson's grasp, collapsing back onto the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and Wilson allowed himself to feel a measure of relief that he had finally gotten through to him. He realized a moment later that his relief was premature, however, when House began shaking his head slowly, eyes still tightly closed, and murmuring in a broken, pleading voice.

"Please… please, don't… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, _please_…"

Wilson's stomach churned with the chilling realization that came with those words.

_God… he's not _waking_ up… he's _giving_ up…_

"House," he persisted, his voice trembling with the tears that streaked his face, though he was not aware of them. "House… _please_ wake up… come on, you have to wake up now… It's just Wilson… you're home, and you're _safe_… Come on, _wake up_!"

At last, House opened his eyes, though they just stared up at him, unfocused, for a long, tense moment, while Wilson silently prayed that he had finally gotten through. Wilson nearly broke down himself when he saw recognition and relief mingled in House's tearful blue eyes, felt House's trembling hands grip his arms like a lifeline as his shoulders began to shake with sobs.

"Shh… it's all right…"

Wilson gently disentangled his arms from House's grasp, murmuring soothing words when House let out a choked sound of protest. He quickly turned and sat on the bed again, his back braced against the headboard as he gathered House's trembling form into his arms, holding him close and whispering quiet reassurances.

"You're all right… you're safe… it's okay…"

House shook his head despairingly, his eyes closed, though his hands were once again clinging to Wilson's encircling arms in a grip that was nearly bruising in its intensity. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and Wilson felt drops of warm moisture falling onto his skin as House finally spoke in a hoarse, listless voice.

"I thought… I-I'm sorry… I… forgot…"

"It's all right," Wilson assured him, running a hand gently through House's disheveled hair. For once, it didn't occur to him that House might reject the gesture. "It's okay… You've been through a lot. A few nightmares are normal. You're okay…"

"I'm sorry," House whispered again, his voice thick with tears. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"

"You have nothing to be sorry for, House," Wilson insisted, turning slightly so that he could get a better look at his friend's face, concern mingled with curiosity in his searching gaze. "House… you didn't do anything wrong..."

House withdrew slightly, eyes lowered as he turned toward Wilson, and Wilson allowed his arm around House to fall, removing any restriction on his movement, unwilling to do anything to increase his discomfort, even accidentally. House swallowed hard, his lips trembling as he drew in a breath to speak, his words halting and filled with weary resignation.

"I… I killed him…"

"You did what you had to do to survive," Wilson cut him off firmly. "You made sure that that monster couldn't hurt anyone else, ever. You did the right thing."

House flinched slightly at those words, and Wilson's heart ached at the brief flash of longing he saw in House's eyes, before it was swiftly concealed once more beneath his cautiously blank expression. His words were quiet, gradually growing steadier and more even, as he continued.

"If you knew… what I did… how it happened…"

"I don't need to know."

Wilson surprised even himself with the decisive words, giving House a reassuring half-smile when House looked up at him sharply, startled. Wilson hesitated, weighing his words before he finally offered an explanation.

"Exactly how he died doesn't matter, House. The precise circumstances leading to his death aren't important." He paused, holding House's gaze as he stated, "He was going to kill you. If you could have found a way to get away from him without killing him – he would have come after you and killed you, and maybe me and Cuddy, too, and God knows who else. Even if you managed to get him arrested again… he escaped once. He could do it again. You had to kill him to defend yourself – and _us_ – and I could _never_ blame you for that."

House looked away, uncomfortable with the level of devotion and certainty he heard in Wilson's voice.

"I… didn't have to do it… the way I did it," he confessed softly. "It could have been… easier…"

"Did he suffer?"

House tensed at the question, his shoulders taut with apprehension as he slowly, reluctantly nodded.

"Good."

House looked up again at the sheer vindictive satisfaction in the single word. Wilson's lips bore a grim smile, as he nodded slowly.

"He _deserved_ to, House. He put you through more suffering than anyone should ever have to endure. He _had_ to die for you to ever be safe again – right?"

House nodded, accepting that much as fact.

"Right," Wilson repeated. "So who says that has to be quick and easy for him? I'd say if he had to die, no one else had any more right than you to decide how."

House was silent, still visibly uncertain.

Wilson reached out a firm but gentle hand to tilt House's head up, silently insisting that he meet his eyes. House's eyes welled with fresh tears of relief when he found no condemnation or accusation there, but only genuine understanding and acceptance. Wilson's voice was soft and soothing as he went on, determined to make House see that he had nothing for which to feel guilty.

"You're not a murderer, House. You _save_ lives. It's what you do." He paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing, "Who knows how many lives you saved by taking out the monster who would have killed them?"

House looked away, eyes widening as he thought about those words. He hadn't considered it from that perspective before.

"Whatever happened in Mexico… however Tritter died… I don't need to know."

Wilson decided even as he spoke, realizing that it simply didn't matter to him anymore.

Nothing mattered but what was best for House.

"I never need to know any more than you want to tell me," Wilson continued. "You saved our lives, and who knows how many others. You did what you had to do. The manner in which you did it doesn't matter. You never have to talk about it… unless you _want_ to. Okay?"

House nodded slowly, glancing up to meet Wilson's eyes for just a moment before looking away again – but not before Wilson saw the sheen of grateful tears in his expressive eyes. Wilson swallowed, choking back tears of his own as he settled back comfortably against the headboard, carefully pulling House down against his chest again, pleased when House offered no resistance, but yielded to his gentle insistence.

"Go back to sleep," Wilson advised softly, running gentle fingertips through House's hair as his eyes drifted gratefully closed again. "I'll be right here."


	71. Chapter 71

It was two weeks before Christmas.

PPTH's lobby had been transformed for the night into a strange cross between a winter wonderland, and a 70s disco club.

Wilson stood at one side of a small circle of donors, one arm casually draped around the shoulders of Jenna, his date for the evening – and pretty much every other evening since the conclusion of the trial. Things were gradually becoming more serious between them though Wilson was determined not to move too quickly this time.

Rushing into serious relationships was a pattern that had not worked out so well for him in the past.

So he and Jenna had been taking things slowly, taking their time in getting to know each other and decide whether or not they really wanted to spend their lives together. Taking House's advice to heart, Wilson was wary and cautious; but lately, Jenna had started dropping subtle hints about the idea of marriage… and Wilson found that the idea did not alarm him in the slightest.

On the contrary, it was a pleasant, hopeful thought.

The predictably silly theme for the evening was "Days of Disco", and Wilson and Jenna had gone to a thrift shop to put together the perfect outfits for the evening. Wilson was having a good time, enjoying laughing and occasionally dancing with Jenna, but mostly looking around at the other donors in their hilariously out-dated, mostly hideous costumes.

When a donor in a particularly repulsive jumpsuit walked past them, Wilson shared a laugh with Jenna, but then found himself immediately scanning the room for House, knowing that House's reaction to the offending outfit would be immensely more satisfying. His brow creased in an unconscious frown, until he finally caught sight of his friend across the room.

House was standing on the sidelines, as Wilson might have expected, sipping from a short glass containing only ice and some kind of alcohol – again, just as Wilson would have guessed.

House was no more enamored of the idea of Christmas, and all its accompanying commercial hypocrisy, than he had ever been. This event was nothing more to him than an opportunity to stand on the edges of the crowd and mock them for their every visible weakness. No, House's ideas regarding anything related to Christmas, or any other religious holiday, had not changed.

What had changed was his attitude toward the idea of indulging in the company of others.

House had always been a loner, and there were still many times when Wilson found himself shut out due to House's need to be alone. However, those times were far less frequent than they had been prior to House's ordeal of the past year. Although Wilson doubted he would ever admit it aloud, House seemed to have come to the conclusion that he actually _needed_ some of the people around him. A year earlier, House would have had to have been somehow coerced into attending this event. Tonight, he had willingly decided to attend, of his own accord.

Of course, House was usually more than satisfied with his own little social circle, consisting of Wilson and Jenna, and Cuddy. When anyone else was added to the mix, he typically reverted to his default position, designed to keep the stranger at a distance, to drive them away before they got a chance to look closely enough at him to see the emotional scars that still remained – would probably _always_ remain.

Still… it was a small step in the right direction.

Wilson watched as a woman dressed in a shiny silver lame dress approached House, and he openly, appreciatively looked her up and down, responding with what Wilson was sure was probably a rather lewd attempt at a compliment. Apparently, the woman took no offense, as she sidled flirtatiously closer to House, earning a slightly wider, wolfish grin from the older man.

Wilson smiled, pleased with House's obvious progress. He felt a bit of his ever-present, protective concern fade away for a moment – until another man ambled nearer to where House stood. He was tall, broadly built, with short, graying blond hair, and Wilson instinctively tensed, prepared to cross the room to House's side when he saw House's shoulders tighten as he took an automatic backward step away from the unintentionally familiar-looking intruder.

It only took an instant for Wilson to realize that the newcomer's attention was focused on the scantily clad young woman rather than House, and that he probably had no idea of the momentary panic he had incited. In fact, Wilson observed with pride, House's response to the man's approach was so slight that probably no one but Wilson himself, who was watching for it, had noticed his instinctive reaction of fear.

Wilson felt his tension easing again when he saw House reply to the man's greeting, traces of a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth, and thought that perhaps his concerns were unwarranted.

Perhaps House was getting to a place where he could hold his own again.

As Wilson watched, Cuddy approached the small group, her flawless public smile in place as she began making introductions. Wilson saw House's shoulders visibly relax, and realized with a warm sense of gratitude that Cuddy had been looking out for House as closely as he had been. If anything, her protective instincts were a bit stronger than his, prompting her to go to House's aid, when Wilson hadn't quite decided yet whether or not he _needed_ any help.

Despite House's visible relief, Wilson still thought he might have been just fine without any assistance – and that was a very encouraging thought.

A new song began to play, and the lights went down in the auditorium, leaving it illuminated only by the flashing, colored lights that panned across the room, reflecting off the disco ball suspended from the ceiling. Wilson's attention was drawn by Jenna's playfully insistent tug on his hand. She was smiling up at him, eyes dancing with mirth.

"Come on," she urged him. "Let's dance."

"Uh… I don't know…"

Wilson cast an uncertain glance in House's direction, eyes narrowed to make out his expression in the suddenly dim lighting. Jenna's hand on his arm turned him gently but insistently away until he reluctantly met her eyes.

"Come on," she repeated. "I'm sure you've still got some moves left, right?"

Wilson hesitated, tempted by her teasing, flirtatious banter, but torn between his desire to be with her, and his desire to look out for House. Across the room, he could just barely make out House, still conversing with the lame-clad woman and the large man, still accompanied by the protective presence of Cuddy. As he looked on, House actually _laughed_, rolling his eyes in response to something Cuddy had just said.

_He's fine. He can handle himself tonight without any help from you. Go ahead and have a good time._

"Got some _left_?" Wilson echoed with disbelieving laughter at her gentle jibe. "You can't even imagine the moves I've got…"

_It's finally safe to relax. The nightmare's finally over._

***************************

"Those track lights can go in the fourth floor storage closet… Hey, don't trash those garlands; we can use those next time…"

Cuddy started across the room as she spoke to head off the careless waste of a couple hundred dollars by a careless employee. The Christmas benefit had gone off wonderfully, and they'd raised quite a bit of money to go toward paying the bills of their less fortunate patients. Everyone seemed to have had a good time, and now there was nothing left but the clean up.

_Pity they couldn't all stay for that part, too…_ She sighed. _I'm gonna be here all night…_

She glanced up as she headed back toward her office with several donation buckets they'd placed out on the refreshment tables, and noticed a familiar figure standing near the door, leaning heavily on his cane. She frowned as she hurriedly placed the buckets on her desk, and walked out of her office again, watching House with concern as she approached.

_He was amazing tonight… He's come so far… but… this evening couldn't have been easy for him…_

As she neared the place where House stood, staring out through the sliding glass doors into the dark parking lot, Cuddy noted the tense expression of dread on his face, the way his white knuckles trembled, clenched around the handle of his cane. Her heart sank, aching with sympathy as she realized what the problem was.

"Care for some company? I'll walk you out," she offered, placing a gentle hand on his arm – for once, heedless of the potential attention of the staff still milling about the lobby.

House flashed her a grateful half-smile before looking away, his mouth forming a grim line as he stared out at the parking lot again. He was quiet for a long time before letting out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

"No," he replied, not sounding at all certain of his decision. "Thanks, but… no." He glanced over his shoulder at the busy lobby, nodding toward it as he met her eyes and pointed out, "You've got a long night ahead of you, lots of work to do."

Cuddy waved a dismissive hand, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter…"

House silenced her with an unexpected hand gripping hers, before releasing her and taking a pointed step toward the doors, causing them to open before him.

"Good night, Cuddy."

She opened her mouth to protest further, but then stopped, swallowing hard as she watched House walk with slow, deliberate movements out of the range of the lights outside the hospital entrance. She momentarily considered following him, but reminded herself that there was no real danger, and thus by following him, she could actually do him more damage than good.

_He has to find out for himself that he can do this… that he's stronger than he knows he is…_

Cuddy drew in a deep, shaky breath, as she forced herself to turn away from the door and move back toward the working clean-up crew.

… _and I have to let him._

**************************

House's heart was racing, and all the moisture in his mouth seemed to have made its way to his palms as he made his way across the parking lot with swift but shaking steps. He fought the impulse to hurry his pace, well aware that doing so would only serve to broadcast his vulnerability and fear to any potential threats that might be lurking in the darkness.

_Except that there are no threats… no danger… it's safe now… Tritter is dead and gone…_

Sometimes it was hard to remember that. Tritter's memory still haunted House's dreams on occasion, and every now and then when startled by a noise behind him, House would spin around in fear, irrationally expecting to see Tritter there.

Rationality was not always his friend anymore, either.

Even when he remembered that Tritter was gone, House was now acutely aware of his own vulnerability. He had never before thought of himself as a potential target for predators – but he did now. His limp, his age, his solitude – all put him at higher risk of being attacked, even at random.

_Don't think about that… just as that's true, it's also true that they can see it if you're scared… be alert, but not afraid…_

House's shoulders straightened, his pace even and swift, but unhurried, as he saw his destination come into view. His heart pounded as he closed the distance between himself and the car, his hand trembling on the door handle. Relief overwhelmed him as the interior light of the car came on and he climbed inside, leaning back in the passenger seat, trying to regain control of his breathing and to slow his racing heart.

Of course, now it was racing with exhilarated adrenaline, rather than fear.

He had made it.

Wilson reached across him and pulled his door shut, a beaming smile of affection and pride on his face as he rested a hand on House's arm, giving it a supportive squeeze.

"You did it," he stated unnecessarily. "I knew you could."

"Yeah," House muttered, eyes closed for a moment, though he couldn't hide his satisfied smile. "Took me long enough."

"Hey, as long as you're moving forward," Wilson pointed out with a shrug, not taking House's self-deprecation too seriously. It was impossible to mistake the pride in House's shining eyes. "You're getting stronger every day, House."

"Speaking of getting stronger…"

Wilson looked up when House didn't go on, giving his friend a questioning look as he pulled the car out onto the road.

"Yes?" he prompted at last.

House hesitated, as if still in the final stages of a mental debate, before finally sighing as he made his reluctant decision.

"I think… I _do_ want to sign up for that class you were talking about."

"The self-defense class?" Wilson was grinning again, very pleased. "That's great!"

"Yeah, yeah," House muttered, rolling his eyes, but his irritation was mild and good-natured. "Shut up about it."

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he spoke again, his voice soft and carrying a note of quiet contentment.

"This is a good night."

Wilson fully expected his comment to be ignored, but a moment later House replied in a soft, pensive voice.

"Yeah. It was."

Wilson smiled, feeling unusually optimistic as he thought back over the past few months. House had been having more and more good nights lately, he realized. He had grown closer in his relationships to Wilson, Cuddy, even Jenna. He had maintained a friendship with Eve; and although he would probably never open up to them about what had happened to him, he had even been making an effort to keep in better contact with his family, particularly his mother.

_That's more genuine relationships than House has probably ever had in his life… he's really come so far…_

As he parked his car outside their apartment, Wilson realized with a smile that they no longer faced the nights with dread, as they had several months ago. These days, House's nights were as likely to be peaceful and untroubled by nightmares as they were to be filled with torment – which was tremendous progress from the nightly reliving of the terror he had experienced that had once haunted his nights.

Every day, things looked a little brighter, a little closer to becoming normal – only _better_.

_It may not be easy… and I know we've still got a long road ahead of us, but finally, _finally_… I _know_… everything is going to be all right…_


End file.
